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PLATE  IX.— {Frontispiece— Vol.  V.) 

Tracery  from  the  Campanile  of  Giotto  at  Florence 


THE 


Seven  Lamps  of  Architecture 


ALSO 

LECTURES  ON  ARCHITECTURE  AND  PAINTING 
THE  STUDY  OF  ARCHITECTURE 
SESAME  AND  LILIES— UNTO  THIS  LAST 
THE  QUEEN  OF  THE  AIR 

THE  STORM-CLOUD  OF  THE  NINETEENTH  CENTURY 


BY 

JOHN  RUSKIN,  M.A. 

AUTHOR  OF  “THE  STONES  OF  VENICE,”  “ THE  CROWN  OF  WILD  OLlVB,’!> 
“ SESAME  AND  LILIES,”  ETC. 


* 


BOSTON 

ALDINE  BOOK  PUBLISHING  CO. 


PUBLISHERS 


. , ..  . . , 


CONTENTS 


SEVEN  LAMPS  OF  ARCHITECTURE, 


Preface 


Introduction  . 

chapter  I. 

The  Lamp  of  Sacrifice 


The  Lamp  of  Truth 


The  Lamp  of  Power 


CHAPTER  II. 


CHAPTER  III. 


CHAPTER  IV. 


The  Lamp  of  Beauty  . 


The  Lamp  of  Life  . 


The  Lamp  of  Memory 


CHAPTER  V. 


CHAPTER  VI. 


CHAPTER  VII. 

The  Lamp  of  Obedience  ; 


Notes 


5 

9 

*5 

34 

69 

100 

142 

167 

188 

203 


LECTURES  ON  ARCHITECTURE  AND  PAINTING 


Preface  ........  213 

Lecture  I.  . . . . . . .217 

Lecture  II.  ......  248 

Addenda  to  Lectures  I.  and  II.  . ...  270 

Lecture  III.  Turner  and  his  Works  . . . 287 

Lecture  IV.  Pre-Raphaelitism  . . . . .311 

Addenda  to  Lecture  IV.  .....  334 

THE  STUDY  OF  ARCHITECTURE. 

An  Inquiry  into  the  Study  of  Architecture  . . 33c 


LIST  OF  ILLUSTRATIONS. 


SEVEN  LAMPS  OF  ARCHITECTURE 


PLATE  PAGE 

I.  Ornaments  from  Rouen,  St.  Lo,  and  Venice  , 33 

II.  Part  of  the  Cathedral  of  St.  Lo,  Normandy  . 55 

III.  Traceries  from  Caen,  Bayeux,  Rouen  and  Beavais  60 

IV.  Intersectional  Mouldings 66 

V.  Capital  from  the  Lower  Arcade  of  the  Doge’s 

Palace,  Venice 88 

VI.  Arch  from  the  Facade  of  the  Church  of  San 

Michele  at  Lucca 90 

VII.  Pierced  Ornaments  from  Lisieux,  Bayeux,  Verona, 

and  Padua 93 

VIII.  Window  from  the  Ca’  Foscari,  Venice  . . 95 

IX.  Tracery  from  the  Campanile  of  Giotto,  at  Flor- 
ence. Frontispiece , 

X.  Traceries  and  Mouldings  from  Rouen  and  Salisbury  122 

XI.  Balcony  in  the  Campo,  St.  Benedetto,  Venice  . 131 

XII.  Fragments  from  Abbeville,  Lucca,  Venice  and  Pisa  149 

XIII.  Portions  of  an  Arcade  on  the  South  Side  of  the 

Cathedral  of  Ferrara 161 

XIV.  Sculptures  from  the  Cathedral  of  Rouen  . . 165 


LECTURES  ON  ARCHITECTURE  AND  PAINTING 

Plate  I.  Figs,  i,  3 and  5.  Illustrative  Diagrams  . 219 

“ II.  “ 2.  Window  in  Oakham  Castle  . . .221 

“ III.  “ 4 AND  6.  Spray  OF  ASH-TREE,  AND  IMPROVEMENT 

of  the  same  on  Greek  Principles  . 226 


LATE  IV. 

Fig. 

7.  Window  in  Dumblane  Cathedral 

231 

“ V. 

u 

8.  Medieval  Turret 

235 

“ VI. 

“ 

9 and  10.  Lombardic  Towers  . 

238 

“ VII. 

“ 

11  and  12.  Spires  at  Contances  and  Rouen 

240 

“ VIII. 

“ 

13  and  14.  Illustrative  Diagrams  . 

2S3 

“ IX. 

<« 

15,  Sculpture  at  Lyons  .... 

254 

“ X. 

u 

16.  Niche  at  Amiens 

255 

“ XI. 

«< 

1 7 and  18.  Tiger’s  Head,  and  improvement 
of  the  same  on  Greek  Principles 

258 

“ XII. 

“ 

19.  Garret  Window  in  Hotel  de  Bourgthe- 

• 

roude  

265 

“ XIII. 

“ 

20  and  21.  Trees,  as  drawn  in  the  thir- 
teenth century  .... 

294 

“ XIV. 

(4 

22.  Rocks,  as  drawn  by  the  school  of  Leon- 
ardo da  Vinci 

296 

“ XV. 

“ 

23.  Boughs  of  Trees,  after  Titian 

298 

THE 


SEVEN  LAMPS 

OF 


ARCHITECTURE 


PREFACE. 


The  memoranda  which  form  the  basis  of  the  following 
Essay  have  been  thrown  together  during  the  preparation  of 
one  of  the  sections  of  the  third  volume  of  “ Modern  Paint- 
ers/’ * I once  thought  of  giving  them  a more  expanded  form  ; 
but  their  utility,  such  as  it  may  be,  would  probably  be  dimin- 
ished by  farther  delay  in  their  publication,  more  than  it  would 
be  increased  by  greater  care  in  their  arrangement.  Obtained 
in  every  case  by  personal  observation,  there  may  be  among 
them  some  details  valuable  even  to  the  experienced  architect ; 
but  with  respect  to  the  opinions  founded  upon  them  I must 
be  prepared  to  bear  the  charge  of  impertinence  which  can 
hardly  but  attach  to  the  writer  who  assumes  a dogmatical  tone 
in  speaking  of  an  art  he  has  never  practised.  There  are,  how- 
ever, cases  in  which  men  feel  too  keenly  to  be  silent,  and  per- 
haps too  strongly  to  be  wrong  ; I have  been  forced  into  this 
impertinence  ; and  have  suffered  too  much  from  the  destruc- 
tion or  neglect  of  the  architecture  I best  loved,  and  from  the 
erection  of  that  which  I cannot  love,  to  reason  cautiously  re- 

* The  inordinate  delay  in  the  appearance  of  that  supplementary  vol- 
ume has,  indeed,  been  chiefly  owing  to  the  necessity  under  which  the 
writer  felt  himself,  of  obtaining  as  many  memoranda  as  possible  of 
mediaeval  buildings  in  Italy  and  Normandy,  now  in  process  of  destruction, 
before  that  destruction  should  be  consummated  by  the  Restorer  or  Rev- 
olutionist His  whole  time  has  been  lately  occupied  in  taking  drawings 
from  one  side  of  buildings,  of  which  masons  wei’e  knocking  down  the 
other  ; nor  can  he  yet  pledge  himself  to  any  time  for  the  publication  of 
the  conclusion  of  “Modern  Paintei-s;”  he  can  only  promise  that  its 
delay  shall  not  be  owing  to  any  indolence  on  his  part. 


6 


P HE  FACE. 


specting  the  modesty  of  my  opposition  to  the  principles  which 
have  induced  the  scorn  of  the  one,  or  directed  the  design  of 
the  other.  And  I have  been  the  less  careful  to  modify  the 
confidence  of  my  statements  of  principles,  because  in  the  midst 
of  the  opposition  and  uncertainty  of  our  architectural  systems, 
it  seems  to  me  that  there  is  something  grateful  in  any  positive 
opinion,  though  in  many  points  wrong,  as  even  weeds  are  use- 
ful that  growf  on  a bank  of  sand. 

Every  apology  is,  however,  due  to  the  reader,  for  the  hasty 
and  imperfect  execution  of  the  plates.  Having  much  more 
serious  work  in  hand,  and  desiring  merely  to  render  them 
illustrative  of  my  meaning,  I have  sometimes  very  completely 
failed  even  of  that  humble  aim  ; and  the  text,  being  generally 
written  before  the  illustration  was  completed,  sometimes 
naively  describes  as  sublime  or  beautiful,  features  which  the 
plate  represents  by  a blot.  I shall  be  grateful  if  the  reader 
will  in  such  cases  refer  the  expressions  of  praise  to  the  Archi- 
tecture, and  not  to  the  illustration. 

So  far,  however,  as  their  coarseness  and  rudeness  admit, 
the  plates  are  valuable  ; being  either  copies  of  memoranda 
made  upon  the  spot,  or  (Plates  IX.  and  XI.)  enlarged  and 
adapted  from  Daguerreotypes,  taken  under  my  own  superin- 
tendence. Unfortunately,  the  great  distance  from  the  ground 
of  the  window  which  is  the  subject  of  Plate  IX.  renders  even 
the  Daguerreotype  indistinct ; and  I cannot  answer  for  the 
accuracy  of  any  of  the  mosaic  details,  more  especially  of  those 
which  surround  the  window",  and  which  I rather  imagine,  in 
the  original,  to  be  sculptured  in  relief.  The  general  propor- 
tions are,  however,  studiously  preserved  ; the  spirals  of  the 
shafts  are  counted,  and  the  effect  of  the  wdiole  is  as  near  that 
of  the  thing  itself,  as  is  necessary  for  the  purposes  of  illustra- 
tion for  which  the  plate  is  given.  For  the  accuracy  of  the 
rest  I can  answer,  even  to  the  cracks  in  the  stones,  and  the 
number  of  them  ; and  though  the  looseness  of  the  drawing, 
and  the  picturesque  character  which  is  necessarily  given  by  an 
endeavor  to  draw  old  buildings  as  they  actually  appear,  may 
perhaps  diminish  their  credit  for  architectural  veracity,  they 
will  do  so  unjustly. 


PREFACE. 


7 


The  system  of  lettering  adopted  in  the  few  instances  in 
which  sections  have  been  given,  appears  somewhat  obscure  in 
the  references,  but  it  is  convenient  upon  the  whole.  The  line 
which  marks  the  direction  of  any  section  is  noted,  if  the  sec- 
tion be  symmetrical,  by  a single  letter ; and  the  section  itself 
by  the  same  letter  with  a line  over  it,  a. — a.  But  if  the  sec- 
lion  be  unsymmetrical,  its  direction  is  noted  by  two  letters, 
a.  a.  a2  at  its  extremities ; and  the  actual  section  by  the  same 
letters  with  lines  over  them,  a.  a.  aa , at  the  corresponding  ex- 
tremities. 

The  reader  will  perhaps  be  surprised  by  the  small  number 
of  buildings  to  which  reference  has  been  made.  But  it  is  to 
be  remembered  that  the  following  chapters  pretend  only  to 
be  a statement  of  principles,  illustrated  each  by  one  or  two 
examples,  not  an  essay  on  European  architecture  ; and  those 
examples  I have  generally  taken  either  from  the  buildings 
which  I love  best,  or  from  the  schools  of  architecture  which,  it 
appeared  to  me,  have  been  less  carefully  described  than  they 
deserved.  I could  as  fully,  though  not  with  the  accuracy  and 
certainty  derived  from  personal  observation,  have  illustrated 
the  principles  subsequently  advanced,  from  the  architecture 
of  Egypt,  India,  or  Spain,  as  from  that  to  which  the  reader  will 
find  his  attention  chiefly  directed,  the  Italian  Romanesque 
and  Gothic.  But  my  affections,  as  well  as  my  experience,  led 
me  to  that  line  of  richly  varied  and  magnificently  intellec- 
tual schools,  which  reaches,  like  a high  watershed  of  Christian 
architecture,  from  the  Adriatic  to  the  Northumbrian  seas, 
bordered  by  the  impure  schools  of  Spain  on  the  one  hand, 
and  of  Germany  on  the  other : and  as  culminating  points  and 
centres  of  this  chain,  I have  considered,  first,  the  cities  of  the 
Yal  d’Arno,  as  representing  the  Italian  Romanesque  and  pure 
Italian  Gothic ; Venice  and  Verona  as  representing  the  Italian 
Gothic  colored  by  Byzantine  elements  ; and  Rouen,  with  the 
associated  Norman  cities,  Caen,  Bayeux,  and  Coutances,  as  rep- 
resenting the  entire  range  of  Northern  architecture  from  the 
Romanesque  to  Flamboyant. 

I could  have  -wished  to  have  given  more  examples  from  our 
early  English  Gothic  ; but  I have  always  found  it  impossible 


8 


PEE  FACE. 


to  work  in  the  cold  interiors  of  our  cathedrals,  while  the  dailj 
services,  lamps,  and  fumigation  of  those  upon  the  Continent, 
render  them  perfectly  safe.  In  the  course  of  last  summer  I 
undertook  a pilgrimage  to  the  English  Shrines,  and  began  with 
Salisbury,  where  the  consequence  of  a few  days’  work  was  a 
state  of  weakened  health,  which  I may  be  permitted  to  name 
among  the  causes  of  the  slightness  and  imperfection  of  the 
present  Essay. 


INTRODUCTORY. 


Some  years  ago,  in  conversation  with  an  artist  whose  works* 
perhaps,  alone,  in  the  present  day,  unite  perfection  of  drawing 
with  resplendence  of  color,  the  writer  made  some  inquiry  re- 
specting the  general  means  by  which  this  latter  quality  was 
most  easily  to  be  attained.  The  reply  was  as  concise  as  it 
was  comprehensive — *■  Know  what  you  have  to  do,  and  do  it  ” 
— comprehensive,  not  only  as  regarded  the  branch  of  art  to 
which  it  temporarily  applied,  but  as  expressing  the  great 
principle  of  success  in  every  direction  of  human  effort ; for  I 
believe  that  failure  is  less  frequently  attributable  to  either  in- 
sufficiency of  means  or  impatience  of  labor,  than  to  a confused 
understanding  of  the  thing  actually  to  be  done  ; and  therefore, 
while  it  is  properly  a subject  of  ridicule,  and  sometimes  of 
blame,  that  men  propose  to  themselves  a perfection  of  any 
kind,  which  reason,  temperately  consulted,  might  have  shown 
to  be  impossible  with  the  means  at  their  command,  it  is  a 
more  dangerous  error  to  permit  the  consideration  of  means  to 
interfere  with  our  conception,  or,  as  is  not  impossible,  even 
hinder  our  acknowledgment  of  goodness  and  perfection  in 
themselves.  And  this  is  the  more  cautiously  to  be  remem- 
bered ; because,  while  a man’s  sense  and  conscience,  aided  by 
Kevelation,  are  always  enough,  if  earnestly  directed,  to  enable 
him  to  discover  what  is  right,  neither  his  sense,  nor  conscience, 
nor  feeling,  are  ever  enough,  because  they  are  not  intended, 
to  determine  for  him  what  is  possible.  He  knows  neither  his 
own  strength  nor  that  of  his  fellows,  neither  the  exact  depend- 
ence to  be  placed  on  his  allies  nor  resistance  to  be  expected 
from  his  opponents.  These  are  questions  respecting  which 
passion  may  warp  his  conclusions,  and  ignorance  must  limit 


10 


INTRODUCTORY. 


them  ; but  it  is  his  own  fault  if  either  interfere  with  the  ap* 
prehension  of  duty,  or  the  acknowledgment  of  right.  And,  as 
far  as  I have  taken  cognizance  of  the  causes  of  the  many  fail- 
ures to  which  the  efforts  of  intelligent  men  are  liable,  more 
especially  in  matters  political,  they  seem  to  me  more  largely 
to  spring  from  this  single  error  than  from  all  others,  that  the 
inquiry  into  the  doubtful,  and  in  some  sort  inexplicable,  re- 
lations of  capability,  chance,  resistance,  and  inconvenience,  in- 
variably precedes,  even  if  it  do  not  altogether  supersede,  the 
determination  of  what  is  absolutely  desirable  and  just.  Nor 
is  it  any  wonder  that  sometimes  the  too  cold  calculation  of 
our  powers  should  reconcile  us  too  easily  to  our  shortcomings, 
and  even  lead  us  into  the  fatal  error  of  supposing  that  our 
conjectural  utmost  is  in  itself  well,  or,  in  other  words,  that 
the  necessity  of  offences  renders  them  inoffensive. 

What  is  true  of  human  polity  seems  to  me  not  less  so  of  the 
distinctively  political  art  of  Architecture.  I have  long  felt  con- 
vinced of  the  necessity,  in  order  to  its  progress,  of  some  de- 
termined effort  to  extricate  from  the  confused  mass  of  partial 
traditions  and  dogmata  with  which  it  has  become  encumbered 
during  imperfect  or  restricted  practice,  those  large  principles 
of  right  which  are  applicable  to  every  stage  and  style  of  it. 
Uniting  the  technical  and  imaginative  elements  as  essentially 
as  humanity  does  soul  and  body,  it  shows  the  same  infirmly 
balanced  liability  to  the  prevalence  of  the  lower  part  over  the 
higher,  to  the  interference  of  the  constructive,  with  the  purity 
and  simplicity  of  the  reflective,  element.  This  tendency,  like 
every  other  form  of  materialism,  is  increasing  with  the  advance 
of  the  age  ; and  the  only  laws  which  resist  it,  based  upon 
partial  precedents,  and  already  regarded  with  disrespect  as 
decrepit,  if  not  with  defiance  as  tyrannical,  are  evidently  in- 
applicable to  the  new  forms  and  functions  of  the  art,  which 
the  necessities  of  the  day  demand.  How  many  these  necessities 
may  become,  cannot  be  conjectured  ; they  rise,  strange  and 
impatient,  out  of  every  modern  shadow  of  change.  How  far 
it  may  be  possible  to  meet  them  without  a sacrifice  of  the  es- 
sential characters  of  architectural  art,  cannot  be  determined 
by  specific  calculation  or  observance.  There  is  no  law,  no 


INTRODUCTORY. 


11 


principle,  based  on  past  practice,  which  may  not  be  overthrown 
in  a moment,  by  the  arising  of  a new  condition,  or  the  inven- 
tion of  a new  material ; and  the  most  rational,  if  not  the  only, 
mode  of  averting  the  danger  of  an  utter  dissolution  of  all  that 
is  systematic  and  consistent  in  our  practice,  or  of  ancient  au- 
thority in  our  judgment,  is  to  cease  for  a little  while,  our  en- 
deavors to  deal  with  the  multiplying  host  of  particular  abuses, 
restraints,  or  requirements ; and  endeavor  to  determine,  as 
the  guides  of  every  effort,  some  constant,  general,  and  irre- 
fragable laws  of  right — laws,  which  based  upon  man’s  nature, 
not  upon  his  knowledge,  may  possess  so  far  the  unchangeable- 
ness of  the  one,  as  that  neither  the  increase  nor  imperfection 
of  the  other  may  be  able  to  assault  or  invalidate  them. 

There  are,  perhaps,  no  such  laws  peculiar  to  any  one  art. 
Their  range  necessarily  includes  the  entire  horizon  of  man’s 
action.  But  they  have  modified  forms  and  operations  belong- 
ing to  each  of  his  pursuits,  and  the  extent  of  their  authority 
cannot  surely  be  considered  as  a diminution  of  its  weight. 
Those  peculiar  aspects  of  them  which  belong  to  the  first  of  the 
arts,  I have  endeavored  to  trace  in  the  following  pages  ; and 
since,  if  truly  stated,  they  must  necessarily  be,  not  only  safe- 
guards against  every  form  of  error,  but  sources  of  every  meas- 
ure of  success,  I do  not  think  that  I claim  too  much  for  them 
in  calling  them  the  Lamps  of  Architecture,  nor  that  it  is  indo- 
lence, in  endeavoring  to  ascertain  the  true  nature  and  nobility 
of  their  fire,  to  refuse  to  enter  into  any  curious  or  special  ques- 
tioning of  the  innumerable  hindrances  by  which  their  light 
has  been  too  often  distorted  or  overpowered. 

Had  this  farther  examination  been  attempted,  the  work 
would  have  become  certainly  more  invidious,  and  perhaps  less 
useful,  as  liable  to  errors  which  are  avoided  by  the  present 
simplicity  of  its  plan.  Simple  though  it  be,  its  extent  is  too 
great  to  admit  of  any  adequate  accomplishment,  unless  by  a 
devotion  of  time  which  the  writer  did  not  feel  justified  in  with- 
drawing from  branches  of  inquiry  in  which  the  prosecution  of 
works  already  undertaken  has  engaged  him.  Both  arrange- 
ments and  nomenclature  are  those  of  convenience  rather  than 
of  system  ; the  one  is  arbitrary  and  the  other  illogical : nor  is 


12 


INTRODUCTORY. 


it  pretended  tliat  all,  or  even  the  greater  number  of,  the  prim 
ciples  necessary  to  the  well-being  of  the  art,  are  included  in 
the  inquiry.  Many,  however,  of  considerable  importance  will 
be  found  to  develope  themselves  incidentally  from  those  more 
specially  brought  forward. 

Graver  apology  is  necessary  for  an  apparently  graver  fault. 
It  has  been  just  said,  that  there  is  no  branch  of  human  work 
whose  constant  laws  have  not  close  analogy  with  those  which 
govern  every  other  mode  of  man’s  exertion.  But,  more  than 
this,  exactly  as  we  reduce  to  greater  simplicity  and  surety  any 
one  group  of  these  practical  laws,  we  shall  find  them  passing 
the  mere  condition  of  connection  or  analogy,  and  becoming 
the  actual  expression  of  some  ultimate  nerve  or  fibre  of  the 
mighty  laws  which  govern  the  moral  world.  However  mean 
or  inconsiderable  the  act,  there  is  something  in  the  well  doing 
of  it,  which  has  fellowship  with  the  noblest  forms  of  manly 
virtue ; and  the  truth,  decision,  and  temperance,  which  we 
reverently  regard  as  honorable  conditions  of  the  spiritual 
being,  have  a representative  or  derivative  influence  over  the 
works  of  the  hand,  the  movements  of  the  frame,  and  the  action 
of  the  intellect. 

And  as  thus  every  action,  down  even  to  the  drawing  of  a 
line  or  utterance  of  a syllable,  is  capable  of  a peculiar  dignity 
in  the  manner  of  it,  which  we  sometimes  express  by  saying  it 
is  truly  done  (as  a line  or  tone  is  true),  so  also  it  is  capable  of 
dignity  still  higher  in  the  motive  of  it.  For  there  is  no  action 
so  slight,  nor  so  mean,  but  it  may  be  done  to  a great  purpose, 
and  ennobled  therefore  ; nor  is  any  purpose  so  great  but  that 
slight  actions  may  help  it,  and  may  be  so  done  as  to  help  it 
much,  most  especially  that  chief  of  all  purposes,  the  pleasing 
of  God.  Hence  George  Herbert — 

“A  servant  witli  this  clause 
Makes  drudgery  divine  ; 

Who  sweeps  a room,  as  for  thy  laws, 

Makes  that  and  the  action  fine.  ” 

Therefore,  in  the  pressing  or  recommending  of  any  act  of 
manner  of  acting,  we  have  choice  of  two  separate  lines  of  ar- 


INTRODUCTORY. 


13 


gurnent  *.  one  based  on  representation  of  the  expediency  or 
inherent  value  of  the  work,  which  is  often  small,  and  always 
disputable  ; the  other  based  on  proofs  of  its  relations  to  the 
higher  orders  of  human  virtue,  and  of  its  acceptableness,  so 
far  as  it  goes,  to  Him  who  is  the  origin  of  virtue.  The  former 
is  commonly  the  more  persuasive  method,  the  latter  assuredly 
the  more  conclusive  ; only  it  is  liable  to  give  offence,  as  if 
there  were  irreverence  in  adducing  considerations  so  weighty 
in  treating  subjects  of  small  temporal  importance.  I believe, 
however,  that  no  error  is  more  thoughtless  than  this.  We 
treat  God  with  irreverence  by  banishing  Him  from  our 
thoughts,  not  by  referring  to  His  will  on  slight  occasions. 
His  is  not  the  finite  authority  or  intelligence  which  cannot  bo 
troubled  with  small  things.  There  is  nothing  so  small  but 
that  we  may  honor  God  by  asking  His  guidance  of  it,  or  in- 
sult Him  by  taking  it  into  our  own  hands  ; and  what  is  true 
of  the  Deity  is  equally  true  of  His  Revelation.  We  use  ifc 
most  reverently  when  most  habitually : our  insolence  is  in 
ever  acting  without  reference  to  it,  our  true  honoring  of  it  is 
in  its  universal  application.  I have  been  blamed  for  the 
familiar  introduction  of  its  sacred  words.  I am  grieved  to 
have  given  pain  by  so  doing  ; but  my  excuse  must  be  my  wish 
that  those  words  were  made  the  ground  of  every  argument 
and  the  test  of  every  action.  We  have  them  not  often  enough 
on  our  lips,  nor  deeply  enough  in  our  memories,  nor  loyally 
enough  in  our  lives.  The  snow,  the  vapor,  and  the  stormy 
wind  fulfil  His  word.  Are  our  acts  and  thoughts  lighter  and 
wilder  than  these — that  we  should  forget  it  ? 

I have  therefore  ventured,  at  the  risk  of  giving  to  some 
passages  the  appearance  of  irreverence,  to  take  the  higher 
line  of  argument  wherever  it  appeared  clearly  traceable  : and 
this,  I would  ask  the  reader  especially  to  observe,  not  merely 
because  I think  it  the  best  mode  of  reaching  ultimate  truth, 
still  less  because  I think  the  subject  of  more  importance  than 
many  others ; but  because  every  subject  should  surely,  at  a 
period  like  the  present,  be  taken  up  in  this  spirit,  or  not  at 
all.  The  aspect  of  the  years  that  approach  us  is  as  solemn  as 
it  is  full  of  mystery  ; and  the  weight  of  evil  against  which  we 


14 


INTRODUCTORY. 


have  to  contend,  is  increasing  like  the  letting  out  of  water. 
It  is  no  time  for  the  idleness  of  metaphysics,  or  the  entertain- 
ment of  the  arts.  The  blasphemies  of  the  earth  are  sounding 
louder,  and  its  miseries  heaped  heavier  every  day ; and  if,  in 
the  midst  of  the  exertion  which  every  good  man  is  called  upon 
to  put  forth  for  their  repression  or  relief,  it  is  lawful  to  ask 
for  a thought,  for  a moment,  for  a lifting  of  the  finger,  in  any 
direction  but  that  of  the  immediate  and  overwhelming  need, 
it  is  at  least  incumbent  upon  us  to  approach  the  questions  in 
which  we  would  engage  him,  in  the  spirit  which  has  become 
the  habit  of  his  mind,  and  in  the  hope  that  neither  his  zeal 
nor  his  usefulness  may  be  checked  by  the  withdrawal  of  an 
hour  which  has  shown  him  how  even  those  things  which 
seemed  mechanical,  indifferent,  or  contemptible,  depend  for 
their  perfection  upon  the  acknowledgment  of  the  sacred  prin- 
ciples of  faith,  truth,  and  obedience,  for  which  it  has  become 
the  occupation  of  his  life  to  contend. 


THE 


SEVEN  LAMPS  OF  ARCHITECTURE, 


CHAPTER  I. 

THE  LAMP  OF  SACRIFICE. 

I.  Architecture  is  the  art  which  so  disposes  and  adorns  the 
edifices  raised  by  man  for  whatsoever  uses,  that  the  sight  or 
them  contributes  to  liis  mental  health,  power  and  pleasure. 

It  is  very  necessary,  in  the  outset  of  all  inquiry,  to  distin- 
guish carefully  between  Architecture  and  Building.  • 

To  build,  literally  to  confirm,  is  by  common  understanding 
to  put  together  and  adjust  the  several  pieces  of  any  edifice  or 
receptacle  of  a considerable  size.  Thus  we  have  church  build- 
ing, house  building,  ship  building,  and  coach  building.  That 
one  edifice  stands,  another  floats,  and  another  is  suspended 
on  iron  springs,  makes  no  difference  in  the  nature  of  the  art, 
if  so  it  may  be  called,  of  building  or  edification.  The  persons 
who  profess  that  art,  are  severally  builders,  ecclesiastical, 
naval,  or  of  whatever  other  name  their  work  may  justify  ; but 
building  does  not  become  architecture  merely  by  the  stability 
of  what  it  erects  ; and  it  is  no  more  architecture  which  raises 
a church,  or  which  fits  it  to  receive  and  contain  with  comfort 
a required  number  of  persons  occupied  in  certain  religious 
offices,  than  it  is  architecture  which  makes  a carriage  com- 
modious or  a ship  swift.  I do  not,  of  course,  mean  that  the 
word  is  not  often,  or  even  may  not  be  legitimately,  applied  in 
such  a sense  (as  we  speak  of  naval  architecture)  ; but  in  that 
sense  architecture  ceases  to  be  one  of  the  fine  arts,  and  it  is 
therefore  better  not  to  run  the  risk,  by  loose  nomenclature,  of 
the  confusion  which  would  arise,  and  has  often  arisen,  from 


16 


THE  LAMP  OF  SACRIFICE. 


extending  principles  which  belong  altogether  to  building,  into 
the  sphere  of  architecture  proper. 

Let  us,  therefore,  at  once  confine  the  name  to  that  a?’t 
which,  taking  up  and  admitting,  as  conditions  of  its  working 
the  necessities  and  common  uses  of  the  building,  impresses  on 
its  form  certain  characters  venerable  or  beautiful,  but  other* 
wise  unnecessary.  Thus,  I suppose,  no  one  would  call  the 
laws  architectural  which  determine  the  height  of  a breastwork 
or  the  position  of  a bastion.  But  if  to  the  stone  facing  of  that 
bastion  be  added  an  unnecessary  feature,  as  a cable  moulding, 
that  is  Architecture.  It  would  be  similarly  unreasonable  to 
call  battlements  or  machicolations  architectural  features,  so 
long  as  they  consist  only  of  an  advanced  gallery  supported  on 
projecting  masses,  with  open  intervals  beneath  for  offence. 
But  if  these  projecting  masses  be  carved  beneath  into  rounded 
courses,  which  are  useless,  and  if  the  headings  of  the  intervals 
be  arched  and  trefoiled,  which  is  useless,  that  is  Architecture. 
It  may  not  be  always  easy  to  draw  the  line  so  sharply  and 
simply,  because  there  are  few  buildings  which  have  not  some 
pretence  or  color  of  being  architectural ; neither  can  there  be 
any  architecture  which  is  not  based  on  building,  nor  any 
good  architecture  which  is  not  based  on  good  building  ; but 
it  is  perfectly  easy  and  very  necessary  to  keep  the  ideas  dis- 
tinct, and  to  understand  fully  that  Architecture  concerns  itself 
only  with  those  characters  of  an  edifice  which  are  above  and 
beyond  its  common  use.  I say  common  ; because  a building 
raised  to  the  honor  of  God,  or  in  memory  of  men,  has  surely  a 
use  to  which  its  architectural  adornment  fits  it ; but  not  a use 
which  limits,  by  any  inevitable  necessities,  its  plan  or  details. 

II.  Architecture  proper,  then,  naturally  arranges  itself  un- 
der five  heads  : — 

Devotional ; including  all  buildings  raised  for  God’s  ser- 
vice or  honor. 

Memorial  ; including  both  monuments  and  tombs. 

Civil  ; including  every  edifice  raised  by  nations  or  societies, 
for  purposes  of  common  business  or  pleasure. 

Military  ; including  all  private  and  public  architecture  of 
defence. 


THE  LAMP  OF  SACRIFICE. 


1? 


Domestic ; including  every  rank  and  kind  of  dwelling-place. 

Now,  of  the  principles  which  I would  endeavor  to  develope, 
while  all  must  be,  as  I have  said,  applicable  to  every  stage  and 
style  of  the  art,  some,  and  especially  those  which  are  exciting 
rather  than  directing,  have  necessarily  fuller  reference  to  one 
kind  of  building  than  another  ; and  among  these  I would  place 
first  that  spirit  which,  having  influence  in  all,  has  nevertheless 
such  especial  reference  to  devotional  and  memorial  architec- 
ture—the  spirit  which  offers  for  such  work  precious  things  sim- 
ply because  they  are  precious  ; not  as  being  necessary  to  the 
building,  but  as  an  offering,  surrendering,  and  sacrifice  of 
what  is  to  ourselves  desirable.  It  seems  to  me,  not  only  that 
this  feeling  is  in  most  cases  wholly  wanting  in  those  who  for- 
ward the  devotional  buildings  of  the  present  day  ; but  that  it 
would  even  be  regarded  as  an  ignorant,  dangerous,  or  perhaps 
criminal  principle  by  many  among  us.  I have  not  space  to 
enter  into  dispute  of  fill  the  various  objections  which  may  be 
urged  against  it — they  are  many  and  spacious ; but  I may, 
perhaps,  ask  the  reader’s  patience  while  I set  down  those  sim- 
ple reasons  which  cause  me  to  believe  it  a good  and  j ust  feel- 
ing, and  as  well-pleasing  to  God  and  honorable  in  men,  as  it 
is  beyond  all  dispute  necessary  to  the  production  of  any  great 
work  in  the  kind  with  which  we  are  at  present  concerned, 

III.  Now,  first,  to  define  this  Lamp,  or  Spirit  of  Sacrifice, 
clearly.  I have  said  that  it  prompts  us  to  the  offering  of 
precious  things  merely  because  they  are  precious,  not  because 
they  are  useful  or  necessary.  It  is  a spirit,  for  instance,  which 
of  two  marbles,  equally  beautiful,  applicable  and  durable, 
would  choose  the  more  costly  because  it  was  so,  and  of  two 
kinds  of  decoration,  equally  effective,  would  choose  the  more 
elaborate  because  it  was  so,  in  order  that  it  might  in  the  same 
compass  present  more  cost  and  more  thought.  It  is  therefore 
most  unreasoning  and  enthusiastic,  and  perhaps  best  nega- 
tively defined,  as  the  opposite  of  the  prevalent  feeling  of 
modem  times,  which  desires  to  produce  the  largest  results  at 
the  least  cost. 

Of  this  feeling,  then,  there  are  two  distinct  forms  : the  first, 
the  wish  to  exercise  self-denial  for  the  sake  of  self-discipline 
2 


18 


THE  LAMP  OF  SACRIFICE. 


merely,  a wish  acted  upon  in  the  abandonment  of  things 
loved  or  desired,  there  being  no  direct  call  or  purpose  to  be 
answered  by  so  doing  ; and  the  second,  the  desire  to  honor  or 
please  some  one  else  by  the  costliness  of  the  sacrifice.  The 
practice  is,  in  the  first  case,  either  private  or  public  ; but  most 
frequently,  and  perhaps  most  properly,  private  ; while,  in  the 
latter  case,  the  act  is  commonly,  and  with  greatest  advantage, 
public.  Now,  it  cannot  but  at  first  appear  futile  to  assert  the 
expediency  of  self-denial  for  its  own  sake,  when,  for  so  many 
sakes,  it  is  every  day  necessary  to  a far  greater  degree  than 
any  of  us  practise  it.  But  I believe  it  is  just  because  we  do 
not  enough  acknowledge  or  contemplate  it  as  a good  in  itself, 
that  we  are  apt  to  fail  in  its  duties  when  they  become  impera- 
tive, and  to  calculate,  with  some  partiality,  whether  the  good 
proposed  to  others  measures  or  warrants  the  amount  of  griev- 
ance to  ourselves,  instead  of  accepting  with  gladness  the  op- 
portunity of  sacrifice  as  a personal  advantage.  Be  this  as  it 
may,  it  is  not  necessary  to  insist  upon  the  matter  here  ; since 
there  are  always  higher  and  more  useful  channels  of  self- 
sacrifice,  for  those  who  choose  to  practise  it,  than  any  con- 
nected with  the  arts. 

While  in  its  second  branch,  that  which  is  especially  con- 
cerned with  the  arts,  the  justice  of  the  feeling  is  still  more 
doubtful  ; it  depends  on  our  answer  to  the  broad  question, 
Can  the  Deity  be  indeed  honored  by  the  presentation  to  Him 
of  any  material  objects  of  value,  or  by  any  direction  of  zeal 
or  wisdom  which  is  not  immediately  beneficial  to  men  ? 

For,  observe,  it  is  not  now  the  question  whether  the  fair- 
ness and  majesty  of  a building  may  or  may  not  answer  any 
moral  purpose  ; it  is  not  the  result  of  labor  in  any  sort  of 
which  we  are  speaking,  but  the  bare  and  mere  costliness — the 
substance  and  labor  and  time  themselves  : are  these,  we  ask, 
independently  of  their  result,  acceptable  offerings  to  God,  and 
considered  by  Him  as  doing  Him  honor  ? So  long  as  we  re- 
fer this  question  to  the  decision  of  feeling,  or  of  conscience, 
or  of  reason  merely,  it  will  be  contradictorily  or  imperfectly 
answered  ; it  admits  of  entire  answer  only  when  we  have  met 
another  and  a far  different  question,  whether  the  Bible  be 


THE  LAMP  OF  SACRIFICE. 


19 


indeed  one  book  or  two,  and  whether  the  character  of  God 
revealed  in  the  Old  Testament  be  other  than  His  character 
revealed  in  the  New. 

IV.  Now,  it  is  a most  secure  truth,  that,  although  the  par- 
ticular ordinances  divinely  appointed  for  special  purposes  at 
any  given  period  of  man’s  history,  may  be  by  the  same  divine 
authority  abrogated  at  another,  it  is  impossible  that  any  char- 
acter of  God,  appealed  to  or  described  in  any  ordinance  past 
or  present,  can  ever  be  changed,  or  understood  as  changed, 
by  the  abrogation  of  that  ordinance.  God  is  one  and  the 
same,  and  is  pleased  or  displeased  by  the  same  things  for  ever, 
although  one  part  of  His  pleasure  may  be  expressed  at  one 
time  rather  than  another,  and  although  the  mode  in  which 
His  pleasure  is  to  be  consulted  may  be  by  Him  graciously 
modified  to  the  circumstances  of  men.  Thus,  for  instance,  it 
was  necessary  that,  in  order  to  the  understanding  by  man  of 
the  scheme  of  Redemption,  that  scheme  should  be  foreshown 
from  the  beginning  by  the  type  of  bloody  sacrifice.  But  God 
had  no  more  pleasure  in  such  sacrifice  in  the  time  of  Moses 
than  He  has  now  ; He  never  accepted  as  a propitiation  for  sin 
any  sacrifice  but  the  single  one  in  prospective  ; and  that  we 
may  not  entertain  any  shadow  of  doubt  on  this  subject,  the 
worthlessness  of  all  other  sacrifice  than  this  is  proclaimed  at 
the  very  time  when  typical  sacrifice  was  most  imperatively  de- 
manded. God  was  a spirit,  and  could  be  worshipped  only  in 
spirit  and  in  truth,  as  singly  and  exclusively  when  every  day 
brought  its  claim  of  typical  and  material  service  or  offering, 
as  now  when  He  asks  for  none  but  that  of  the  heart. 

So,  therefore,  it  is  a most  safe  and  sure  principle  that,  if  in 
the  manner  of  performing  any  rite  at  any  time,  circumstances 
can  be  traced  which  we  are  either  told,  or  may  legitimately 
conclude,  pleased  God  at  that  time,  those  same  circumstances 
will  please  Him  at  all  times,  in  the  performance  of  all  rites  or 
offices  to  which  they  may  be  attached  in  like  manner  ; unless 
it  has  been  afterwards  revealed  that,  for  some  special  purpose, 
it  is  now  His  will  that  such  circumstances  should  be  with- 
drawn. And  this  argument  will  have  all  the  more  force  if  it 
can  be  shown  that  such  conditions  were  not  essential  to  the 


20 


THE  LAMP  OF  SACRIFICE. 


completeness  of  the  rite  in  its  human  uses  and  bearings,  and 
only  were  added  to  it  as  being  in  themselves  pleasing  to  God. 

Y.  Now,  was  it  necessary  to  the  completeness,  as  a type,  of 
the  Levitical  sacrifice,  or  to  its  utility  as  an  explanation  of 
divine  purposes,  that  it  should  cost  anything  to  the  person  in 
whose  behalf  it  was  offered  ? On  the  contrary,  the  sacrifice 
which  it  foreshowed  was  to  be  God’s  free  gift ; and  the  cost 
of,  or  difficulty  of  obtaining,  the  sacrificial  type,  could  only 
render  that  type  in  a measure  obscure,  and  less  expressive  of 
the  offering  which  God  would  in  the  end  provide  for  all  men. 
Yet  this  costliness  was  generally  a condition  of  the  accept- 
ableness of  the  sacrifice.  “ Neither  will  I offer  unto  the  Lord 
rny  God  of  that  which  doth  cost  me  nothing.”  * That  costli- 
ness, therefore,  must  be  an  acceptable  condition  in  all  human 
offerings  at  all  times ; for  if  it  was  pleasing  to  God  once,  it 
must  please  Him  always,  unless  directly  forbidden  by  Him 
afterwards,  which  it  has  never  been. 

Again,  was  it  necessary  to  the  typical  perfection  of  the 
Levitical  offering,  that  it  should  be  the  best  of  the  flock? 
Doubtless  the  spotlessness  of  the  sacrifice  renders  it  more  ex- 
pressive to  the  Christian  mind  ; but  was  it  because  so  expres- 
sive that  it  was  actually,  and  in  so  many  words,  demanded  by 
God  ? Not  at  all.  It  was  demanded  by  Him  expressly  on  the 
same  grounds  on  which  an  earthly  governor  would  demand  it, 
as  a testimony  of  respect.  “ Offer  it  now  unto  thy  governor.” 
And  the  less  valuable  offering  was  rejected,  not  because  it  did 
not  image  Christ,  nor  fulfil  the  purposes  of  sacrifice,  but  be- 
cause it  indicated  a feeling  that  would  grudge  the  best  of  its 
possessions  to  Him  who  gave  them  ; and  because  it  was  a bold 
dishonoring  of  God  in  the  sight  of  man.  Whence  it  may  be 
infallibly  concluded,  that  in  whatever  offerings  we  may  now 
see  reason  to  present  unto  God  (I  say  not  wdiat  these  may 
be),  a condition  of  their  acceptableness  will  be  now,  as  it  was 
then,  that  they  should  be  the  best  of  their  kind. 

YI.  But  farther,  was  it  necessary  to  the  carrying  out  of  the 
Mosaical  system,  that  there  should  be  either  art  or  splendor 
in  the  form  or  services  of  the  tabernacle  or  temple  ? Was  it 
* 2 Sam.  xxiv.  24.  Deut.  xvi.  16,  17.  f Mai.  i.  8. 


THE  LAMP  OF  SACRIFICE. 


m 


necessary  to  the  perfection  of  any  one  of  their  typical  offices, 
that  there  should  be  that  hanging  of  blue,  and  purple,  and 
scarlet?  those  taches  of  brass  and  sockets  of  silver?  that 
working  in  cedar  and  overlaying  with  gold  ? One  thing  at 
least  is  evident : there  was  a deep  and  awful  danger  in  it  ; a 
danger  that  the  God  whom  they  so  worshipped,  might  be  as> 
soeiated  in  the  minds  of  the  serfs  of  Egypt  with  the  gods  tc 
whom  they  had  seen  similar  gifts  offered  and  similar  honors 
paid.  The  probability,  in  our  times,  of  fellowship  with  the 
feelings  of  the  idolatrous  Romanist  is  absolutely  as  nothing 
compared  with  the  danger  to  the  Israelite  of  a sympathy  with 
the  idolatrous  Egyptian  ; 1 no  speculative,  no  unproved  dan- 
ger ; but  proved  fatally  by  their  fall  during  a month’s  aban- 
donment to  their  own  will ; a fall  into  the  most  servile  idol- 
atry ; yet  marked  by  such  offerings  to  their  idol  as  their 
leader  was,  in  the  close  sequel,  instructed  to  bid  them  offer  to 
God.  This  danger  was  imminent,  perpetual,  and  of  the  most 
awful  kind  : it  was  the  one  against  which  God  made  provision, 
not  only  by  commandments,  by  threatenings,  by  promises, 
the  most  urgent,  repeated,  and  impressive  ; but  by  temporary 
ordinances  of  a severity  so  terrible  as  almost  to  dim  for  a 
time,  in  the  eyes  of  His  people,  His  attribute  of  mercy.  The 
principal  object  of  every  instituted  law  of  that  Theocracy,  of 
every  judgment  sent  forth  in  its  vindication,  was  to  mark  to 
the  people  His  hatred  of  idolatry ; a hatred  written  under 
their  advancing  steps,  in  the  blood  of  the  Ganaanite,  and 
more  sternly  still  in  the  darkness  of  their  own  desolation, 
when  the  children  and  the  sucklings  swooned  in  the  streets 
of  Jerusalem,  and  the  lion  tracked  his  prey  in  the  dust  of 
Samaria.*  Yet  against  this  mortal  danger  provision  was  not 
made  in  one  way  (to  man’s  thoughts  the  simplest,  the  most 
natural,  the  most  effective),  by  withdrawing  from  the  worship 
of  the  Divine  Being  whatever  could  delight  the  sense,  or 
shape  the  imagination,  or  limit  the  idea  of  Deity  to  place. 
This  one  way  God  refused,  demanding  for  Himself  such 
honors,  and  accepting  for  Himself  such  local  dwelling,  as  had 
been  paid  and  dedicated  to  idol  gods  by  heathen  worshippers 
* Lam.  ii.  11 . 2 Kings  xvii,  25. 


22 


THE  LAMP  OF  SACRIFICE. 


and  for  what  reason  ? Was  the  glory  of  the  tabernacle  neo« 
essary  to  set  forth  or  image  His  divine  glory  to  the  minds  of 
His  people?  What!  purple  or  scarlet  necessary  to  the  peo- 
ple who  had  seen  the  great  river  of  Egypt  run  scarlet  to  the 
sea,  under  His  condemnation?  What!  golden  lamp  and 
cherub  necessary  for  those  who  had  seen  the  fires  of  heaven 
falling  like  a mantle  on  Mount  Sinai,  and  its  golden  courts 
opened  to  receive  their  mortal  lawgiver  ? What ! silver  clasp 
and  fillet  necessary  when  they  had  seen  the  silver  waves  of  the 
Red  Sea  clasp  in  their  arched  hollows  the  corpses  of  the 
horse  and  his  rider?  Nay— not  so.  There  was  but  one  rea- 
son, and  that  an  eternal  one  ; that  as  the  covenant  that  He 
made  with  men  was  accompanied  with  some  external  sign  of 
its  continuance,  and  of  His  remembrance  of  it,  so  the  accept- 
ance of  that  covenant  might  be  marked  and  signified  by  use, 
in  some  external  sign  of  their  love  and  obedience,  and  surren- 
der of  themselves  and  theirs  to  His  will  ; and  that  their  grat- 
itude to  Him,  and  continual  remembrance  of  Him,  might 
have  at  once  their  expression  and  their  enduring  testimony  in 
the  presentation  to  Him,  not  only  of  the  firstlings  of  the  herd 
and  fold,  not  only  of  the  fruits  of  the  earth  and  the  tithe  of 
time,  but  of  all  treasures  of  wisdom  and  beauty  ; of  the 
thought  that  invents,  and  the  hand  that  labors  ; of  wealth  of 
wood,  and  weight  of  stone  ; of  the  strength  of  iron,  and  of  the 
light  of  gold. 

And  let  us  not  now  lose  sight  of  this  broad  and  unabrogated 
principle — I might  say,  incapable  of  being  abrogated,  so  long 
as  men  shall  receive  earthly  gifts  from  God.  Of  ail  that  they 
have  His  tithe  must  be  rendered  to  Him,  or  in  so  far  and  in 
so  much  He  is  forgotten  : of  the  skill  and  of  the  treasure,  of 
the  strength  and  of  the  mind,  of  the  time  and  of  the  toil,  of- 
fering must  be  made  reverently  ; and  if  there  be  any  differ- 
ence between  the  Levitical  and  the  Christian  offering,  it  is 
that  the  latter  may  be  just  so  much  the  wider  in  its  range  as 
it  is  less  typical  in  its  meaning,  as  it  is  thankful  instead  of 
sacrificial.  There  can  be  no  excuse  accepted  because  the 
Deity  does  not  now  visibly  dwell  in  His  temple  ; if  He  is  in- 
visible it  is  only  through  our  failing  faith : nor  any  excuse 


TEE  LAMP  OF  SACRIFICE. 


23 


because  other  calls  are  more  immediate  or  more  sacred  ; this 
ought  to  be  done,  and  not  the  other  left  undone.  Yet  this 
objection,  as  frequent  as  feeble,  must  be  more  specifically  an- 
swered. 

VH.  It  has  been  said — it  ought  always  to  be  said,  for  it  is 
true — that  a better  and  more  honorable  offering  is  made  to 
our  Master  in  ministry  to  the  poor,  in  extending  the  knowledge 
of  His  name,  in  the  practice  of  the  virtues  by  which  that  name 
is  hallowed,  than  in  material  presents  to  His  temple.  Assur- 
edly it  is  so  : woe  to  all  who  think  that  any  other  kind  or  man- 
ner of  offering  may  in  any  wise  take  the  place  of  these  ! Do 
the  people  need  place  to  pray,  and  calls  to  hear  His  word  ? 
Then  it  is  no  time  for  smoothing  pillars  or  carving  pulpits  ; 
let  us  have  enough  first  of  walls  and  roofs.  Do  the  people 
need  teaching  from  house  to  house,  and  bread  from  day  to 
day?  Then  they  are  deacons  and  ministers  we  want,  not 
architects.  I insist  on  this,  I plead  for  this  ; but  let  us  ex- 
amine ourselves,  and  see  if  this  be  indeed  the  reason  for  our 
backwardness  in  the  lesser  work.  The  question  is  not  between 
God’s  house  and  His  poor  : it  is  not  between  God’s  house  and 
His  Gospel.  It  is  between  God’s  house  and  ours.  Have  we 
no  tesselated  colors  on  our  floors  ? no  frescoed  fancies  on  our 
roofs  ? no  niched  statuary  in  our  corridors  ? no  gilded  furni- 
ture in  our  chambers  ? no  costly  stones  in  our  cabinets  ? Has 
even  the  tithe  of  these  been  offered  ? They  are,  or  they  ought 
to  be,  the  signs  that  enough  has  been  devoted  to  the  great 
purposes  of  human  stewardship,  and  that  there  remains  to  us 
what  we  can  spend  in  luxury  ; but  there  is  a greater  and 
prouder  luxury  than  this  selfish  one — that  of  bringing  a por- 
tion of  such  things  as  these  into  sacred  service,  and  present- 
ing them  for  a memorial  * that  our  pleasure  as  well  as  our  toil 
has  been  hallowed  by  the  remembrance  of  Him  who  gave  both 
the  strength  and  the  reward.  And  until  this  has  been  done, 
I do  not  see  how  such  possessions  can  be  retained  in  happiness. 
I do  not  understand  the  feeling  which  would  arch  our  own 
gates  and  pave  our  own  thresholds,  and  leave  the  church  with 
its  narrow  door  and  foot -worn  sill ; the  feeling  which  enriches 
* Num.  xxxi.  54.  Psa.  lxxvi.  11. 


24 


THE  LAMP  OF  SACRIFICE. 


our  own  chambers  with  all  manner  of  costliness,  and  endures 
the  bare  wall  and  mean  compass  of  the  temple.  There  is  sel* 
dom  even  so  severe  a choice  to  be  made,  seldom  so  much  self- 
denial  to  be  exercised.  There  are  isolated  cases,  in  which 
men  s happiness  and  mental  activity  depend  upon  a certain 
degree  of  luxury  in  their  houses  ; but  then  this  is  true  luxury, 
felt  and  tasted,  and  profited  by.  In  the  plurality  of  instances 
nothing  of  the  kind  is  attempted,  nor  can  be  enjoyed  ; men’s 
average  resources  cannot  reach  it ; and  that  which  they  can 
reach,  gives  them  no  pleasure,  and  might  be  spared.  It  will 
be  seen,  in  the  course  of  the  following  chapters,  that  I am  no 
advocate  for  meanness  of  private  habitation.  I would  fain  in- 
troduce into  it  all  magnificence,  care,  and  beauty,  where  they 
are  possible  ; but  I would  not  have  that  useless  expense  in  un- 
noticed fineries  or  formalities ; cornicings  of  ceilings  and  grain- 
ing of  doors,  and  fringing  of  curtains,  and  thousands  such  ; 
things  which  have  become  foolishly  and  apathetically  habitual 
— things  on  whose  common  appliance  hang  whole  trades,  to 
which  there  never  yet  belonged  the  blessing  of  giving  one  ray 
of  real  pleasure,  or  becoming  of  the  remotest  or  most  con- 
temptible use — things  which  cause  half  the  expense  of  life,  and 
destroy  more  than  half  its  comfort,  manliness,  respectability, 
freshness,  and  facility.  I speak  from  experience  : I know 
what  it  is  to  live  in  a cottage  with  a deal  floor  and  roof,  and 
a hearth  of  mica  slate ; and  I know  it  to  be  in  many  respects 
healthier  and  happier  than  living  between  a Turkey  carpet 
and  gilded  ceiling,  beside  a steel  grate  and  polished  fender. 
I do  not  say  that  such  things  have  not  their  place  and  pro- 
priety ; but  I say  this,  emphatically,  that  the  tenth  part  of 
the  expense  which  is  sacrificed  in  domestic  vanities,  if  not 
absolutely  and  meaninglessly  lost  in  domestic  discomforts,  and 
incumbrances,  would,  if  collectively  offered  and  wisely  em- 
ployed, build  a marble  church  for  every  town  in  England  ; 
such  a church  as  it  should  be  a joy  and  a blessing  even  to 
pass  near  in  our  daily  ways  and  -walks,  and  as  it  would  bring 
the  light  into  the  eyes  to  see  from  afar,  lifting  its  fair  height 
above  the  purple  crowd  of  humble  roofs. 

VIII.  I have  said  for  every  town  : I do  not  want  a marbl9 


THE  LAMP  OF  SACRIFICE . 


25 


church  for  every  village  ; nay,  I do  not  want  marble  churches 
at  all  for  their  own  sake,  but  for  the  sake  of  the  spirit  that 
would  build  them.  The  church  has  no  need  of  any  visible 
splendors  ; her  power  is  independent  of  them,  her  purity  is  in 
some  degree  opposed  to  them.  The  simplicity  of  a pastoral 
sanctuary  is  lovelier  than  the  majesty  of  an  urban  temple  ; 
and  it  may  be  more  than  questioned  whether,  to  the  people, 
such  majesty  has  ever  been  the  source  of  any  increase  of  effec- 
tive piety  ; but  to  the  builders  it  has  been,  and  must  ever  be. 
It  is  not  the  church  we  want,  but  the  sacrifice  ; not  the  emo- 
tion of  admiration,  but  the  act  of  adoration  : not  the  gift,  but 
the  giving.2  And  see  how  much  more  charity  the  full  un- 
derstanding of  this  might  admit,  among  classes  of  men  of 
naturally  opposite  feelings  ; and  how  much  more  nobleness  in 
the  work.  There  is  no  need  to  offend  by  importunate,  self- 
proclaiming  splendor.  Your  gift  may  be  given  in  an  unpre- 
suming way.  Cut  one  or  two  shafts  out  of  a porphyry  wliosa 
preciousness  those  only  would  know  who  would  desire  it  to  be 
so  used  ; add  another  month’s  labor  to  the  undercutting  of  a 
few  capitals,  whose  delicacy  will  not  be  seen  nor  loved  by  one 
beholder  of  ten  thousand  ; see  that  the  simplest  masonry  of 
the  edifice  be  perfect  and  substantial ; and  to  those  who  re- 
gard such  things,  their  witness  will  be  clear  and  impressive  ; 
to  those  who  regard  them  not,  all  will  at  least  be  inoffensive. 
But  do  not  think  the  feeling  itself  a folly,  or  the  act  itself  use- 
less. Of  what  use  was  that  dearly  bought  water  of  the  well 
of  Bethlehem  with  which  the  King  of  Israel  slaked  the  dust 
of  Adullam  ? — yet  was  not  thus  better  than  if  he  had  drunk 
it  ? Of  what  use  was  that  passionate  act  of  Christian  sacrifice, 
against  which,  first  uttered  by  the  false  tongue,  the  very  ob- 
jection we  would  now  conquer  took  a sullen  tone  for  ever  ? * 
So  also  let  us  not  ask  of  what  use  our  offering  is  to  the  church  : 
it  is  at  least  better  for  us  than  if  it  had  been  retained  for  our* 
selves.  It  may  be  better  for  others  also : there  is,  at  any  rate, 
a chance  of  this  ; though  we  must  always  fearfully  and  widely 
shun  the  thought  that  the  magnificence  of  the  temple  can 
materially  add  to  the  efficiency  of  the  worship  or  to  the  powei 
* John  xii.  5. 


26 


THE  LAMP  OF  SACRIFICE \ 


of  the  ministry.  Whatever  we  do,  or  whatever  we  offer,  let  it 
not  interfere  with  the  simplicity  of  the  one,  or  abate,  as  if  re- 
placing, the  zeal  of  the  other.  That  is  the  abuse  and  fallacy 
of  Romanism,  by  which  the  true  spirit  of  Christian  offering  is 
directly  contradicted.  The  treatment  of  the  Papists’  temple  is 
eminently  exhibitory  ; it  is  surface  work  throughout ; and  the 
danger  and  evil  of  their  church  decoration  lie,  not  in  its  reality 
— not  in  the  true  wealth  and  art  of  it,  of  which  the  lower  peo- 
ple are  never  cognizant — but  in  its  tinsel  and  glitter,  in  the 
gilding  of  the  shrine  and  painting  of  the  image,  in  embroidery 
of  dingy  robes  and  crowding  of  imitated  gems  ; all  this  being 
frequently  thrust  forward  to  the  concealment  of  what  is  really 
good  or  great  in  their  buildings.5  Of  an  offering  of  gratitude 
which  is  neither  to  be  exhibited  nor  rewarded,  which  is  neither 
to  win  praise  nor  purchase  salvation,  the  Romanist  (as  such) 
has  no  conception. 

IX.  "While,  however,  I would  especially  deprecate  the  im- 
putation of  any  other  acceptableness  or  usefulness  to  the  gift 
itself  than  that  which  it  receives  from  the  spirit  of  its  presen- 
tation, it  may  be  well  to  observe,  that  there  is  a lower  advan- 
tage which  never  fails  to  accompany  a dutiful  observance  oi 
any  right  abstract  principle.  While  the  first  fruits  of  his  pos- 
sessions were  required  from  the  Israelite  as  a testimony  of 
fidelity,  the  payment  of  those  first  fruits  was  nevertheless  re- 
warded, and  that  connectedly  and  specifically,  by  the  increase 
of  those  possessions.  Wealth,  and  length  of  days,  and  peace, 
wrere  the  promised  and  experienced  rewards  of  his  offering, 
though  they  were  not  to  be  the  objects  of  it.  The  tithe  paid 
into  the  storehouse  was  the  expressed  condition  of  the  bless- 
ing which  there  should  not  be  room  enough  to  receive.  And 
it  will  be  thus  always  : God  never  forgets  any  work  or  labor 
of  love  ; and  whatever  it  may  be  of  which  the  first  and  best 
proportions  or  powers  have  been  presented  to  Him,  he  will 
multiply  and  increase  sevenfold.  Therefore,  though  it  may 
not  be  necessarily  the  interest  of  religion  to  admit  the  service 
of  the  arts,  the  arts  will  never  flourish  until  they  have  been 
primarily  devoted  to  that  service — devoted,  both  by  architect 
and  employer  ; by  the  one  in  scrupulous,  earnest,  affectionate 


TEE  LAMP  OF  SACRIFICE. 


27 


design  ; by  the  other  in  expenditure  at  least  more  frank,  at 
least  less  calculating,  than  that  which  he  would  admit  in  the 
indulgence  of  his  own  private  feelings.  Let  this  principle  be 
but  once  fairly  acknowledged  among  us  ; and  however  it  may 
be  chilled  and  repressed  in  practice,  however  feeble  may  be 
its  real  influence,  however  the  sacredness  of  it  may  be  dimin- 
ished by  counter-workings  of  vanity  and  self-interest,  yet  its 
mere  acknowledgment  would  bring  a reward  ; and  with  our 
present  accumulation  of  means  and  of  intellect,  there  would 
be  such  an  impulse  and  vitality  given  to  art  as  it  has  not  felt 
since  the  thirteenth  century.  And  I do  not  assert  this  as 
other  than  a national  consequence  : I should,  indeed,  expect 
a larger  measure  of  every  great  and  spiritual  faculty  to  be 
always  given  where  those  faculties  had  been  wisely  and  relig- 
iously employed  ; but  the  impulse  to  which  I refer,  would 
be,  humanly  speaking,  certain  ; and  would  naturally  result 
from  obedience  to  the  two  great  conditions  enforced  by  the 
Spirit  of  Sacrifice,  first,  that  we  should  in  everything  do  our 
best ; and,  secondly,  that  we  should  consider  increase  of  ap- 
parent labor  as  an  increase  of  beauty  in  the  building.  A few 
practical  deductions  from  these  two  conditions,  and  I have 
done. 

X.  For  the  first : it  is  alone  enough  to  secure  success,  and 
it  is  for  want  of  observing  it  that  we  continually  fail.  We 
are  none  of  us  so  good  architects  as  to  be  able  to  work  habitu- 
ally beneath  our  strength ; and  yet  there  is  not  a building 
that  I know  of,  lately  raised,  wherein  it  is  not  sufficiently 
evident  that  neither  architect  nor  builder  has  done  his  best. 
It  is  the  especial  characteristic  of  modern  work.  All  old 
work  nearly  lias  been  hard  work.  It  may  be  the  hard  work 
of  children,  of  barbarians,  of  rustics  ; but  it  is  always  their 
utmost.  Ours  has  as  constantly  the  look  of  money's  worth, 
of  a stopping  short  wherever  and  whenever  we  can,  of  a lazy 
compliance  with  low  conditions  ; never  of  a fair  putting  forth 
of  our  strength.  Let  us  have  done  with  this  kind  of  work  at 
once  : cast  off  every  temptation  to  it : do  not  let  us  degrade 
ourselves  voluntarily,  and  then  mutter  and  mourn  over  our 
short  comings ; let  us  confess  our  poverty  or  our  parsimony, 


28 


TEE  LAMP  OF  SACRIFICE. 


but  not  belie  our  human  intellect.  It  is  not  even  a question 
of  how  much  we  are  to  do,  but  of  how  it  is  to  be  done  ; it  is 
not  a question  of  doing  more,  but  of  doing  better.  Do  not 
let  us  boss  our  roofs  with  wretched,  half- worked,  blunt-edged 
rosettes  ; do  not  let  us  flank  our  gates  with  rigid  imitations 
of  mediaeval  statuary.  Such  things  are  mere  insults  to 
common  sense,  and  only  unfit  us  for  feeling  the  nobility  of 
their  prototypes.  We  have  so  much,  suppose,  to  be  spent  in 
decoration  ; let  us  go  to  the  Flaxman  of  his  time,  whoever 
he  may  be,  and  bid  him  carve  for  us  a single  statue,  frieze  or 
capital,  or  as  many  as  we  can  afford,  compelling  upon  him  the 
one  condition,  that  they  shall  be  the  best  he  can  do  ; place 
them  where  they  will  be  of  the  most  value,  and  be  content 
Our  other  capitals  may  be  mere  blocks,  and  our  other  niches 
empty.  No  matter  : better  our  work  unfinished  than  all  bad. 
It  may  be  that  we  do  not  desire  ornament  of  so  high  an 
order ; choose,  then,  a less  developed  style,  also,  if  you  will, 
rougher  material ; the  law  which  we  are  enforcing  requires 
only  that  what  we  pretend  to  do  and  to  give,  shall  both  be 
the  best  of  their  kind  ; choose,  therefore,  the  Norman  hatchet 
work,  instead  of  the  Flaxman  frieze  and  statue,  but  let  it  be 
the  best  hatchet  work  ; and  if  you  cannot  afford  marble,  use 
Caen  stone,  but  from  the  best  bed  ; and  if  not  stone,  brick, 
but  the  best  brick  ; preferring  always  what  is  good  of  a lower 
order  of  work  or  material,  to  what  is  bad  of  a higher  ; for  this 
is  not  only  the  way  to  improve  every  kind  of  work,  and  to  put  s 
every  kind  of  material  to  better  use  ; but  it  is  more  honest 
and  unpretending,  and  is  in  harmony  with  other  just,  upright, 
and  manly  principles,  whose  range  we  shall  have  presently  to 
take  into  consideration. 

XI.  The  other  condition  which  we  had  to  notice,  was  the 
value  of  the  appearance  of  labor  upon  architecture.  I have 
spoken  of  this  before  ; * and  it  is,  indeed,  one  of  the  most 
frequent  sources  of  pleasure  which  belong  to  the  art,  always, 
however,  within  certain  somewhat  remarkable  limits.  For  it 
does  not  at  first  appear  easily  to  be  explained  why  labor,  as 
represented  by  materials  of  value,  should,  without  sense  of 
* Mod.  Painters,  I.  Sec.  1,  Chap.  3. 


THE  LAMP  OF  SACRIFICE. 


29 


wrong  or  error,  bear  being  wasted  ; while  the  waste  of  actual 
workmanship  is  always  painful,  so  soon  as  it  is  apparent. 
But  so  it  is,  that,  while  precious  materials  may,  with  a certain 
profusion  and  negligence,  be  employed  for  the  magnificence 
of  what  is  seldom  seen,  the  work  of  man  cannot  be  carelessly 
and  idly  bestowed,  without  an  immediate  sense  of  wrong  ; as 
if  the  strength  of  the  living  creature  were  never  intended  by 
its  Maker  to  be  sacrificed  in  vain,  though  it  is  well  for  us 
sometimes  to  part  with  what  we  esteem  precious  of  sub- 
stance, ar>  showing  that,  in  such  a service  it  becomes  but  dross 
and  dust.  And  in  the  nice  balance  between  the  straitening 
of  effort  or  enthusiasm  on  the  one  hand,  and  vainly  casting  it 
away  upon  the  other,  there  are  more  questions  than  can  be 
met  by  any  but  very  just  and  watchful  feeling.  In  general  it 
is  less  the  mere  loss  of  labor  that  offends  us,  than  the  lack 
of  judgment  implied  by  such  loss  ; so  that  if  men  confessedly 
work  for  work’s  sake,  and  it  does  not  appear  that  they  are  ig- 
norant where  or  how  to  make  their  labor  tell,  we  shall  not  be 
grossly  offended.  On  the  contrary,  we  shall  be  pleased  if  the 
work  be  lost  in  carrying  out  a principle,  or  in  avoiding  a de- 
ception. It,  indeed,  is  a law  properly  belonging  to  another 
part  of  our  subject,  but  it  may  be  allowably  stated  here,  that, 
whenever,  by  the  construction  of  a building,  some  parts  of  it 
are  hidden  from  the  eye  which  are  the  continuation  of  others 
bearing  some  consistent  ornament,  it  is  not  well  that  the  or- 
nament should  cease  in  the  parts  concealed  ; credit  is  given 
for  it,  and  it  should  not  be  deceptively  withdrawn  : as,  for  in- 
stance, in  the  sculpture  of  the  backs  of  the  statues  of  a temple 
pediment ; never,  perhaps,  to  be  seen,  but  yet  not  lawfully  to 
be  left  unfinished.  And  so  in  the  working  out  of  ornaments 
in  dark  concealed  places,  in  which  it  is  best  to  err  on  the  side 
of  completion  ; and  in  the  carrying  round  of  string  courses, 
and  other  such  continuous  work  ; not  but  that  they  may  stop 
sometimes,  on  the  point  of  going  into  some  palpably  impene- 
trable recess,  but  then  let  them  stop  boldly  and  markedly,  on 
some  distinct  terminal  ornament,  and  never  be  supposed  to 
exist  where  they  do  not.  The  arches  of  the  towers  which 
flank  the  transepts  of  Bouen  Cathedral  have  rosette  orna- 


30 


THE  LAMP  OF  SACRIFICE. 


merits  on  their  spandrils,  on  the  three  visible  sides  ; none  on 
the  side  towards  the  roof.  The  right  of  this  is  rather  a nice 
point  for  question. 

XU.  Visibility,  however,  we  must  remember,  depends,  not 
only  on  situation,  but  on  distance  ; and  there  is  no  way  in 
which  work  is  more  painfully  and  unwisely  lost  than  in  its 
over  delicacy  on  parts  distant  from  the  eye.  Here,  again,  the 
principle  of  honesty  must  govern  our  treatment  : we  must 
not  work  any  kind  of  ornament  which  is,  perhaps,  to  cover 
the  whole  building  (or  at  least  to  occur  on  all  parts  of  it)  deli- 
cately where  it  is  near  the  eye,  and  rudely  where  it  is  removed 
from  it.  That  is  trickery  and  dishonesty.  Consider,  first, 
what  kinds  of  ornaments  will  tell  in  the  distance  and  what 
near,  and  so  distribute  them,  keeping  such  as  by  their  nature 
are  delicate,  down  near  the  eye,  and  throwing  the  bold  and 
rough  kinds  of  work  to  the  top  ; and  if  there  be  any  kind 
which  is  to  be  both  near  and  far  off,  take  care  that  it  be  as 
boldly  and  rudely  wrought  where  it  is  well  seen  as  where  it 
is  distant,  so  that  the  spectator  may  know  exactly  what  it  is, 
and  what  it  is  worth.  Thus  chequered  patterns,  and  in  gen- 
eral such  ornaments  as  common  workmen  can  execute,  may 
extend  over  the  whole  building  ; but  bas-reliefs,  and  fine 
niches  and  capitals,  should  be  kept  down,  and  the  common 
sense  of  this  will  always  give  a building  dignity,  even  though 
there  be  some  abruptness  or  awkwardness,  in  the  resulting 
arrangements.  Thus  at  San  Zeno  at  Verona,  the  bas-reliefs, 
full  of  incident  and  interest  are  confined  to  a parallelogram 
of  the  front,  reaching  to  the  height  of  the  capitals  of  the  col- 
umns of  the  porch.  Above  these,  we  find  a simple  though 
most  lovely,  little  arcade ; and  above  that,  only  blank  wall, 
with  square  face  shafts.  The  whole  effect  is  tenfold  grander 
and  better  than  if  the  entire  facade  had  been  covered  with  bad 
work,  and  may  serve  for  an  example  of  J:he  way  to  place  little 
where  we  cannot  afford  much.  So,  again,  the  transept  gates 
of  Rouen  * are  covered  with  delicate  bas-reliefs  (of  which  I 

* Henceforward,  for  the  sake  of  convenience,  when  I name  any  ca= 
thedral  town  in  this  manner,  let  me  he  understood  to  speak  of  its  cathe 
iral  church. 


THE  LAMP  OF  SACRIFICE. 


31 


shall  speak  at  greater  length  presently)  up  to  about  once 
and  a half  a man’s  height ; and  above  that  come  the  usual 
aud  more  visible  statues  and  niches.  So  in  the  campanile  at 
Florence,  the  circuit  of  bas-reliefs  is  on  its  lowest  story  ; 
above  that  come  its  statues  ; and  above  them  all  its  pattern 
mosaic,  and  twisted  columns,  exquisitely  finished,  like  all 
Italian  work  of  the  time,  but  still,  in  the  eye  of  the  Floren- 
tine, rough  and  commonplace  by  comparison  with  the  bas- 
reliefs.  So  generally  the  most  delicate  niche  work  and  best 
mouldings  of  the  French  Gothic  are  in  gates  and  low  win- 
dows well  within  sight ; although,  it  being  the  very  spirit  of 
that  style  to  trust  to  its  exuberance  for  effect,  there  is  occa- 
sionally a burst  upwards  and  blossoming  unrestrainably  to 
the  sky,  as  in  the  pediment  of  the  west  front  of  Ilouen,  and 
in  the  recess  of  the  rose  window  behind  it,  where  there  are 
some  most  elaborate  flower-mouldings,  all  but  invisible  from 
below,  and  only  adding  a general  enrichment  to  the  deep 
shadows  that  relieve  the  shafts  of  the  advanced  pediment.  It 
is  observable,  however,  that  this  very  work  is  bad  flamboyant, 
aud  has  corrupt  renaissance  characters  in  its  detail  as  well  as 
use  ; while  in  the  earlier  and  grander  north  and  south  gates, 
there  is  a very  noble  proportioning  of  the  work  to  the  dis- 
tance, the  niches  and  statues  which  crown  the  northern  one, 
at  a height  of  about  one  hundred  feet  from  the  ground,  being 
alike  colossal  and  simple  ; visibly  so  from  below,  so  as  to  in- 
duce no  deception,  and  yet  honestly  and  well-finished  above, 
and  all  that  they  are  expected  to  be  ; the  features  very  beau- 
tiful, full  of  expression,  and  as  delicately  wrought  as  any 
work  of  the  period. 

XIII.  It  is  to  be  remembered,  however,  that  while  the  orna- 
ments in  every  fine  ancient  building,  without  exception  so  far 
as  I am  aware,  are  most  delicate  at  the  base,  they  are  often 
in  greater  effective  quantity  on  the  upper  parts.  In  high 
towers  this  is  perfectly  natural  and  right,  the  solidity  of  the 
foundation  being  as  necessary  as  the  division  and  penetration 
of  the  superstructure  ; hence  the  lighter  work  and  richly 
pierced  crowns  of  late  Gothic  towers.  The  campanile  of 
Giotto  at  Florence^  already  alluded  to,  is  an  exquisite  instance 


82 


THE  LAMP  OF  SACRIFICE. 


of  tlie  union  of  the  two  principles,  delicate  bas-reliefs  adorm 
ing  its  massy  foundation,  while  the  open  tracery  of  the  upper 
windows  attracts  the  eye  by  its  slender  intricacy,  and  a rich 
cornice  crowns  the  whole.  In  such  truly  fine  cases  of  this 
disposition  the  upper  work  is  effective  by  its  quantity  and  in- 
tricacy only,  as  the  lower  portions  by  delicacy  ; so  also  in  the 
Tour  de  Beurre  at  Bouen,  where,  however,  the  detail  is  massy 
throughout,  subdividing  into  rich  meshes  as  it  ascends.  In 
the  bodies  of  buildings  the  principle  is  less  safe,  but  its  dis- 
cussion is  not  connected  with  our  present  subject. 

XIY.  Finally,  work  may  be  wasted  by  being  too  good  for 
its  material,  or  too  fine  to  bear  exposure ; and  this,  generally  a 
characteristic  of  late,  especially  of  renaissance,  work,  is  per- 
haps the  worst  fault  of  all.  I do  not  know  anything  more 
painful  or  pitiful  than  the  kind  of  ivory  carving  with  which 
the  Certosa  of  Pavia,  and  part  of  the  Colleone  sepulchral 
chapel  at  Bergamo,  and  other  such  buildings,  are  incrusted, 
of  which  it  is  not  possible  so  much  as  to  think  without  ex- 
haustion ; and  a heavy  sense  of  the  misery  it  would  be,  to  be 
forced  to  look  at  it  at  all.  And  this  is  not  from  the  quantity 
of  it,  nor  because  it  is  bad  work — much  of  it  is  inventive  and 
able  ; but  because  it  looks  as  if  it  were  only  fit  to  be  put  in 
inlaid  cabinets  and  velveted  caskets,  and  as  if  it  could  not 
bear  one  drifting  shower  or  gnawing  frost.  We  are  afraid  for 
it,  anxious  about  it,  and  tormented  by  it ; and  we  feel  that  a 
massy  shaft  and  a bold  shadow  would  be  worth  it  all.  Never- 
theless, even  in  cases  like  these,  much  depends  on  the  accom- 
plishment of  the  great  ends  of  decoration.  If  the  ornament 
does  its  duty — if  it  is  ornament,  and  its  points  of  shade  and 
light  tell  in  the  general  effect,  we  shall  not  be  offended  by 
finding  that  the  sculptor  in  his  fulness  of  fancy  has  chosen  to 
give  much  more  than  these  mere  points  of  light,  and  has 
composed  them  of  groups  of  figures.  But  if  the  ornament 
does  not  answer  its  purpose,  if  it  have  no  distant,  no  truly 
decorative  power  ; if  generally  seen  it  be  a mere  incrustation 
and  me£iningless  roughness,  w*e  shall  only  be  chagrined  by 
finding  when  we  look  close,  that  the  incrustation  has  cost 
years  of  labor,  and  has  millions  of  figures  and  histories  in  it 


PLATE  I.— (Page  33-Vol.  V.) 


Ornaments  from  Rouen.  St.  Lo,  and  Venice 


TEE  LAMP  OF  SACRIFICE. 


3 $ 


and  would  be  tlie  better  of  being  seen  through  a Stanhope 
lens.  Hence  the  greatness  of  the  northern  Gothic  as  con- 
trasted with  the  latest  Italian.  It  reaches  nearly  the  same 
extreme  of  detail ; but  it  never  loses  sight  of  its  architectural 
purpose,  never  fails  in  its  decorative  power  ; not  a leaflet  in  it 
but  speaks,  and  speaks  far  off,  too  ; and  so  long  as  this  be 
the  case,  there  is  no  limit  to  the  luxuriance  in  which  such 
work  may  legitimately  and  nobly  be  bestowed. 

XV.  No  limit : it  is  one  of  the  affectations  of  architects  to 
speak  of  overcharged  ornament.  Ornament  cannot  be  over- 
charged if  it  be  good,  and  is  always  overcharged  when  it  is 
bad.  I have  given,  on  the  opposite  page  (fig.  1),  one  of  the 
smallest  niches  of  the  central  gate  of  Rouen.  That  gate  I 
suppose  to  be  the  most  exquisite  piece  of  pure  flamboyant 
work  existing ; for  though  I have  spoken  of  the  upper  por- 
tions, especially  the  receding  window,  as  degenerate,  the  gate 
itself  is  of  a purer  period,  and  has  hardly  any  renaissance 
taint.  There  are  four  strings  of  these  niches  (each  with  two 
figures  beneath  it)  round  the  porch,  from  the  ground  to  the 
top  of  the  arch,  with  three  intermediate  rows  of  larger  niches, 
far  more  elaborate  ; besides  the  six  principal  canopies  of  each 
outer  pier.  The  total  number  of  the  subordinate  niches  alone, 
each  worked  like  that  in  the  plate,  and  each  with  a different 
pattern  of  traceries  in  each  compartment,  is  one  hundred  and 
seventy-six.4  Yet  in  all  this  ornament  iliere  is  not  one  cusp, 
one  finial  that  is  useless — not  a stroke  of  the  chisel  is  in  vain  ; 
the  grace  and  luxuriance  of  it  all  are  visible — sensible  rather 
— even  to  the  uninquiring  eye ; and  all  its  minuteness  does 
not  diminish  the  majesty;  while  it  increases  the  mystery,  of 
the  noble  and  unbroken  vault.  It  is  not  less  the  boast  of 
some  styles  that  they  can  bear  ornament,  than  of  others  that 
they  can  do  without  it ; but  we  do  not  often  enough  reflect 
that  those  very  styles,  of  so  haughty  simplicity,  owe  part  of 
their  pleasurableness  to  contrast,  and  would  be  wearisome  if 
universal.  They  are  but  the  rests  and  monotones  of  the  art ; 
it  is  to  its  far  happier,  far  higher,  exaltation  that  we  owe 
those  fair  fronts  of  variegated  mosaic,  charged  with  wild  fan- 
cies and  dark  hosts  of  imagery,  thicker  and  quainter  than 
8 


34 


TEE  LAMP  OF  TRUTH. 


ever  filled  the  depth  of  midsummer  dream  ; those  vaulted 
gates,  trellised  with  close  leaves ; those  window-labyrinths  of 
twisted  tracery  and  starry  light ; those  misty  masses  of  mul- 
titudinous pinnacle  and  diademed  tower  ; the  only  witnesses, 
perhaps  that  remain  to  us  of  the  faith  and  fear  of  nations, 
Adi  else  for  which  the  builders  sacrificed,  has  passed  away — 
all  their  living  interests,  and  aims,  and  achievements.  We 
know  not  for  what  they  labored,  and  wre  see  no  evidence  of 
their  reward.  Victory,  wealth,  authority,  happiness — all  have 
departed,  though  bought  by  many  a bitter  sacrifice.  But  of 
them,  and  their  life,  and  their  toil  upon  the  earth,  one  re- 
ward, one  evidence,  is  left  to  us  in  those  gray  heaps  of  deep- 
wrought  stone.  They  have  taken  with  them  to  the  grave 
their  powers,  their  honors,  and  their  errors ; but  they  have 
left  us  their  adoration. 


CHAPTER  XL 

THE  LAMP  OE  TRUTH. 

X.  There  is  a marked  likeness  between  the  virtues  of  man 
and  the  enlightenment  of  the  globe  he  inhabits — the  same 
diminishing  gradation  in  vigor  up  to  the  limits  of  their  do- 
mains, the  same  essential  separation  from  their  contraries — 
the  same  twilight  at  the  meeting  of  the  two  : a something 
wider  belt  than  the  line  where  the  world  rolls  into  night,  that 
strange  twilight  of  the  virtues ; that  dusky  debateable  land, 
wherein  zeal  becomes  impatience,  and  temperance  becomes 
severity,  and  justice  becomes  cruelty,  and  faith  superstition, 
and  each  and  all  vanish  into  gloom. 

Nevertheless,  with  the  greater  number  of  them,  though 
their  dimness  increases  gradually,  we  may  mark  the  moment 
of  their  sunset ; and,  happily,  may  turn  the  shadow  back  by 
the  way  by  viiich  it  had  gone  down  : but  for  one,  the  line  of 
the  horizon  is  irregular  and  undefined  ; and  this,  too,  the  very 
equator  and  girdle  of  them  all — Truth  ; that  only  one  of 
which  there  are  no  degrees,  but  breaks  and  rents  continually 
that  pillar  of  the  earth,  yet  a cloudy  pillar  ; that  golden  and 
narrow  line,  which  the  very  powers  and  virtues  that  lean  upon 


THE  LAMP  OF  TRUTH: 


35 


it  bend,  which  policy  and  prudence  conceal,  which  kindness 
and  courtesy  modify,  which  courage  overshadows  with  his 
shield,  imagination  covers  with  her  wings,  and  charity  dims 
with  her  tears.  How  difficult  must  the  maintenance  of  that 
authority  be,  which,  while  it  has  to  restrain  the  hostility  of 
all  the  worst  principles  of  man,  has  also  to  restrain  the  dis- 
orders of  his  best  — which  is  continually  assaulted  by  the  one 
and  betrayed  by  the  other,  and  which  regards  with  the  same 
severity  the  lightest  and  the  boldest  violations  of  its  law! 
There  are  some  faults  slight  in  the  sight  of  love,  some  errors 
slight  in  the  estimate  of  wdsdom  ; but  truth  forgives  no 
insult,  and  endures  no  stain. 

We  do  not  enough  consider  this  ; nor  enough  dread  the 
slight  and  continual  occasions  of  offence  against  her.  We 
are  too  much  in  the  habit  of  looking  at  falsehood  in  its  dark- 
est associations,  and  through  the  color  of  its  wTorst  purposes. 
That  indignation  which  we  profess  to  feel  at  deceit  absolute, 
is  indeed  only  at  deceit  malicious.  We  resent  calumny,  hy- 
pocrisy and  treachery,  because  they  harm  us,  not  because  they 
are  untrue.  Take  the  detraction  and  the  mischief  from  the 
untruth,  and  we  are  little  offended  by  it ; turn  it  into  praise, 
and  we  may  be  pleased  with  it.  And  yet  it  is  not  calumny 
nor  treachery  that  does  the  largest  sum  of  mischief  in  the 
world  ; they  are  continually  crushed,  and  are  felt  only  in 
being  conquered.  But  it  is  the  glistening  and  softly  spoken 
lie  ; the  amiable  fallacy  ; the  patriotic  lie  of  the  historian,  the 
provident  lie  of  the  politician,  the  zealous  lie  of  the  partizan, 
the  merciful  lie  of  the  friend,  and  the  careless  lie  of  each  man 
to  himself,  that  cast  that  black  mystery  over  humanity, 
through  which  any  man  who  pierces,  we  thank  as  we  wTould 
thank  one  who  dug  a well  in  a desert ; happy  in  that  the 
thirst  for  truth  still  remains  with  us,  even  when  we  have  wil- 
fully left  the  fountains  of  it. 

It  would  be  well  if  moralists  less  frequently  confused  the 
greatness  of  a sin  with  its  unpardonableness.  The  two  charac- 
ters are  altogether  distinct.  The  greatness  of  a fault  depends 
partly  on  the  nature  of  the  person  against  whom  it  is  com- 
mitted, partly  upon  the  extent  of  its  consequences.  Its  par- 


36 


THE  LAMP  OF  TRUTH. 


donableness  depends,  humanly  speaking,  on  the  degree  oi 
temptation  to  it.  One  class  of  circumstances  determines  tlia 
weight  of  the  attaching  punishment ; the  other,  the  claim  to 
remission  of  punishment : and  since  it  is  not  easy  for  men  to 
estimate  the  relative  weight,  nor  possible  for  them  to  know 
the  relative  consequences,  of  crime,  it  is  usually  wise  in  them 
to  quit  the  care  of  such  nice  measurements,  and  to  look  to 
the  other  and  clearer  condition  of  culpability  ; esteeming 
those  faults  worst  which  are  committed  under  least  tempta- 
tion. I do  not  mean  to  diminish  the  blame  of  the  injurious 
and  malicious  sin,  of  the  selfish  and  deliberate  falsity  ; yet  it 
seems  to  me,  that  the  shortest  way  to  check  the  darker  forms 
of  deceit  is  to  set  watch  more  scrupulous  against  those  which 
have  mingled,  unregarded  and  unchastised,  with  the  current 
of  our  life.  Do  not  let  us  lie  at  all.  Do  not  think  of  one 
falsity  as  harmless,  and  another  as  slight,  and  another  as  un- 
intended. Cast  them  all  aside  : they  may  be  light  and  acci- 
dental ; but  they  are  an  ugly  soot  from  the  smoke  of  the  pit, 
for  all  that  ; and  it  is  better  that  our  hearts  should  be  swept 
clean  of  them,  without  over  care  as  to  which  is  largest  or 
blackest.  Speaking  truth  is  like  writing  fair,  and  comes  only 
by  practice ; it  is  less  a matter  of  will  than  of  habit,  and  I 
doubt  if  any  occasion  can  be  trivial  which  permits  the  practice 
and  formation  of  such  a habit.  To  speak  and  act  truth  with 
constancy  and  precision  is  nearly  as  difficult,  and  icerhaps  as 
meritorious,  as  to  speak  it  under  intimidation  or  penalty  ; 
and  it  is  a strange  thought  how  many  men  there  are,  as  I 
trust,  who  w^ould  hold  to  it  at  the  cost  of  fortune  or  life,  for 
one  who  would  hold  to  it  at  the  cost  of  a little  daily  trouble. 
And  seeing  that  of  all  sin  there  is,  perhaps,  no  one  moi-  flatly 
opposite  to  the  Almighty,  no  one  more  “ wanting  the  good  of 
virtue  and  of  being,”  than  this  of  lying,  it  is  surely  a strange 
insolence  to  fall  into  the  foulness  of  it  on  light  or  on  no  temp- 
tation, and  surely  becoming  an  honorable  man  to  resolve  that, 
whatever  semblances  or  fallacies  the  necessary  course  of  his 
life  may  compel  him  to  bear  or  to  believe,  none  shall  distu*  \j 
the  serenity  of  his  voluntary  actions,  nor  diminish  the  reality 
of  his  chosen  delights. 


THE  LAMP  OF  TRUTH 


37 


II.  If  this  be  just  and  wise  for  truth’s  sake,  much  more  is 
it  necessary  for  the  sake  of  the  delights  over  which  she  has  in- 
fluence. For,  as  I advocated  the  expression  of  the  Spirit  of 
Sacrifice  in  the  acts  and  pleasures  of  men,  not  as  if  thereby 
those  acts  could  further  the  cause  of  religion,  but  because 
most  assuredly  they  might  therein  be  infinitely  ennobled  them- 
selves, so  I would  have  the  Spirit  or  Lamp  of  Truth  clear  in 
the  hearts  of  our  artists  and  handicraftsmen,  not  as  if  the 
truthful  practice  of  handicrafts  could  far  advance  the  cause  of 
truth,  but  because  I would  fain  see  the  handicrafts  themselves 
urged  by  the  spurs  of  chivalry : and  it  is,  indeed,  marvellous 
to  see  what  power  and  universality  there  is  in  this  single  prin- 
ciple, and  how  in  the  consulting  or  forgetting  of  it  lies  half 
the  dignity  or  decline  of  every  art  and  act  of  man.  I have  be- 
fore endeavored  to  show  its  range  and  power  in  painting  ; and 
I believe  a volume,  instead  of  a chapter,  might  be  written  on 
its  authority  over  all  that  is  great  in  architecture.  But  I must 
be  content  with  the  force  of  instances  few  and  familiar,  beliew 
ing  that  the  occasions  of  its  manifestation  may  be  more  easily 
discovered  by  a desire  to  be  true,  than  embraced  by  an  analy- 
sis of  truth. 

Only  it  is  very  necessary  in  the  outset  to  mark  clearly 
wherein  consists  the  essence  of  fallacy  as  distinguished  from 
supposition. 

III.  For  it  might  be  at  first  thought  that  the  whole  king- 
dom of  imagination  was  one  of  deception  also.  Not  so  : the 
action  of  the  imagination  is  a voluntary  summoning  of  the 
conceptions  of  things  absent  or  impossible  ; and  the  pleasure 
and  nobility  of  the  imagination  partly  consist  in  its  knowledge 
and  contemplation  of  them  as  such,  i.e.  in  the  knowledge  of 
their  actual  absence  or  impossibility  at  the  moment  of  their 
apparent  presence  or  reality.  When  the  imagination  deceives 
it  becomes  madness.  It  is  a noble  faculty  so  long  as  it  con- 
fesses its  own  ideality ; when  it  ceases  to  confess  this,  it  is 
insanity.  All  the  difference  lies  in  the  fact  of  the  confession, 
in  there  being  no  deception.  It  is  necessary  to  our  rank  as 
spiritual  creatures,  that  we  should  be  able  to  invent  and  to 
behold  what  is  not ; and  to  our  rank  as  moral  creatures* 


3S 


THE  LAMP  OF  TRUTH. 


that  we  should  know  and  confess  at  tlie  same  time  that  it  ig 
not. 

IV.  Again,  it  might  be  thought,  and  has  been  thought,  that 
the  whole  art  of  painting  is  nothing  else  than  an  endeavor  to 
deceive.  Not  so  : it  is,  on  the  contrary,  a statement  of  certain 
facts,  in  the  clearest  possible  way.  For  instance : I desire  to 
give  an  account  of  a mountain  or  of  a rock  ; I begin  by  telling 
its  shape.  But  words  will  not  do  this  distinctly,  and  I draw 
its  shape,  and  say,  “ This  was  its  shape.”  Next : I would  fain 
represent  its  color ; but  words  will  not  do  this  either,  and  I 
dye  the  paper,  and  say,  “ This  was  its  color.”  Such  a process 
may  be  carried  on  until  the  scene  appears  to  exist,  and  a high 
pleasure  may  be  taken  in  its  apparent  existence.  This  is  a 
communicated  act  of  imagination,  but  no  lie.  The  he  can 
consist  only  in  an  assertion  of  its  existence  (which  is  never  for 
one  instant  made,  implied,  or  believed),  or  else  in  false  state- 
ments of  forms  and  colors  (which  are,  indeed,  made  and  be- 
lieved to  our  great  loss,  continually).  And  observe,  also,  that 
so  degrading  a thing  is  deception  in  even  the  approach  and 
appearance  of  it,  that  all  painting  which  even  reaches  the 
mark  of  apparent  realization,  is  degraded  in  so  doing.  I have 
enough  insisted  on  this  point  in  another  place. 

V.  The  violations  of  truth,  which  dishonor  poetry  and 
painting,  are  thus  for  the  most  part  confined  to  the  treatment 
of  theh  subjects.  But  in  architecture  another  and  a less  sub- 
tle, more  contemptible,  violation  of  truth  is  possible  ; a direct 
falsity  of  assertion  respecting  the  nature  of  material,  or  the 
quantity  of  labor.  And  this  is,  in  the  full  sense  of  the  word, 
wrong  ; it  is  as  truly  deserving  of  reprobation  as  any  other 
moral  delinquency  ; it  is  unworthy  alike  of  architects  and  of 
nations  ; and  it  has  been  a sign,  wherever  it  has  widely  and 
with  toleration  existed,  of  a singular  debasement  of  the  arts ; 
that  it  is  not  a sign  of  worse  than  this,  of  a general  want  of 
severe  probity,  can  be  accounted  for  only  by  our  knowledge 
of  the  strange  separation  which  has  for  some  centuries  existed 
between  the  arts  and  all  other  subjects  of  human  intellect,  as 
matters  of  conscience.  This  withdrawal  of  conscientiousness 
from  among  the  faculties  concerned  with  art,  while  it  has 


THE  LAMP  OF  TRUTH 


39 


destroyed  the  arts  themselves,  has  also  rendered  in  a measure 
nugatory  the  evidence  which  otherwise  they  might  have  pre- 
sented respecting  the  character  of  the  respective  nations  among 
whom  they  have  been  cultivated  ; otherwise,  it  might  appear 
more  than  strange  that  a nation  so  distinguished  for  its  gen- 
eral  uprightness  and  faith  as  the  English,  should  admit  in 
their  architecture  more  of  pretence,  concealment,  and  deceit, 
than  any  other  of  this  or  of  past  time. 

They  are  admitted  in  thoughtlessness,  but  with  fatal  effect 
upon  the  art  in  which  they  are  practised.  If  there  were  no 
other  causes  for  the  failures  which  of  late  have  marked  every 
great  occasion  for  architectural  exertion,  these  petty  dishon- 
esties would  be  enough  to  account  for  all.  It  is  the  first  step 
and  not  the  least,  towards  greatness  to  do  away  with  these ; 
the  first,  because  so  evidently  and  easily  in  our  power.  We 
may  not  be  able  to  command  good,  or  beautiful,  or  inventive 
architecture  ; but  we  can  command  an  honest  architecture : 
the  meagreness  of  poverty  may  be  pardoned,  the  sternness 
of  utility  respected  ; but  what  is  there  but  scorn  for  the  mean- 
ness of  deception  ? 

YI.  Architectural  Deceits  are  broadly  to  be  considered  un- 
der three  heads  : — 

1st.  The  suggestion  of  a mode  of  structure  or  support, 
other  than  the  true  one  ; as  in  pendants  of  late  Gothic  roofs. 

2d.  The  painting  of  surfaces  to  represent  some  other  ma- 
terial than  that  of  which  they  actually  consist  (as  in  the  mar- 
bling of  wood),  or  the  deceptive  representation  of  sculptured 
ornament  upon  them. 

3d.  The  use  of  cast  or  machine-made  ornaments  of  any  kind. 

Now,  it  may  be  broadly  stated,  that  architecture  will  be 
noble  exactly  in  the  degree  in  which  all  these  false  expedients 
are  avoided.  Nevertheless,  there  are  certain  degrees  of  them, 
which,  owing  to  their  frequent  usage,  or  to  other  causes,  have 
so  far  lost  the  nature  of  deceit  as  to  be  admissible  ; as,  for 
instance,  gilding,  vvhich  is  in  architecture  no  deceit,  because 
it  is  therein  not  understood  for  gold  ; wdiile  in  jewellery  it  is 
a deceit,  because  it  is  so  understood,  and  therefore  altogether 
to  be  reprehended.  So  that  there  arise,  in  the  application  of 


40 


THE  LAMP  OF  TRUTH. 


the  strict  rules  of  right,  many  exceptions  and  niceties  of  coik 
science  ; which  let  us  as  briefly  as  possible  examine. 

VII.  1st.  Structural  Deceits.  I have  limited  these  to  the 
determined  and  purposed  suggestion  of  a mode  of  support 
other  than  the  true  one.  The  architect  is  not  bound  to  ex- 
hibit structure  ; nor  are  we  to  complain  of  him  for  concealing 
it,  any  more  than  we  should  regret  that  the  outer  surfaces  of 
the  human  frame  conceal  much  of  its  anatomy  ; nevertheless, 
that  building  will  generally  be  the  noblest,  which  to  an  in- 
telligent eye  discovers  the  great  secrets  of  its  structure,  as  an 
animal  form  does,  although  from  a careless  observer  they 
may  be  concealed.  In  the  vaulting  of  a Gothic -roof  it  is  no 
deceit  to  throw  the  strength  into  the  ribs  of  it,  and  make  the 
intermediate  vault  a mere  shell.  Such  a structure  would  be 
presumed  by  an  intelligent  observer,  the  first  time  he  saw 
such  a roof ; and  the  beauty  of  its  traceries  would  be  enhanced 
to  him  if  they  confessed  and  followed  the  lines  of  its  main 
strength.  If,  however,  the  intermediate  shell  were  made  of 
wood  instead  of  stone,  and  whitewashed  to  look  like  the  rest, 

• — this  would,  of  course,  be  direct  deceit,  and  altogether  un- 
pardonable. 

There  is,  however,  a certain  deception  necessarily  occur- 
ring in  Gothic  architecture,  which  relates,  not  to  the  points, 
but  to  the  maimer,  of  support.  The  resemblance  in  its  shafts 
and  ribs  to  the  external  relations  of  stems  and  branches, 
which  has  been  the  ground  of  so  much  foolish  speculation, 
necessarily  induces  in  the  mind  of  the  spectator  a sense  or 
belief  of  a correspondent  internal  structure  ; that  is  to  say, 
of  a fibrous  and  continuous  strength  from  the  root  into  the 
limbs,  and  an  elasticity  communicated  upwards , sufficient  for 
the  support  of  the  ramified  portions.  The  idea  of  the  real 
conditions,  of  a great  weight  of  ceiling  thrown  upon  certain 
narrow,  jointed  lines,  which  have  a tendency  partly  to  be 
crushed,  and  partly  to  separate  and  be  pushed  outwards,  is 
with  difficulty  received  ; and  the  more  so  when  the  pfllars 
would  be,  if  unassisted,  too  slight  for  the  weight,  and  are  sup- 
ported by  external  flying  buttresses,  as  in  the  apse  of  Beau- 
vais, and  other  such  achievements  of  the  bolder  Gothic.  Now, 


THE  LAMP  OF  TRUTH. 


41 


there  is  a nice  question  of  conscience  in  this,  which  we  shall 
hardly  settle  but  by  considering  that,  when  the  mind  is  in- 
formed beyond  the  possibility  of  mistake  as  to  the  true  nature 
of  things,  the  affecting  it  with  a contrary  impression,  however 
distinct,  is  no  dishonesty,  but  on  the  century,  a legitimate 
appeal  to  the  imagination.  For  instance,  the  greater  part  of 
the  happiness  which  we  have  in  contemplating  clouds,  results 
from  the  impression  of  their  having  massive,  luminous,  warm, 
and  mountain-like  surfaces  ; and  our  delight  in  the  sky  fre- 
quently depends  upon  our  considering  it  as  a blue  vault. 
But  we  know  the  contrary,  in  both  instances  ; we  know  the 
cloud  to  be  a damp  fog,  or  a drift  of  snow  flakes  ; and 
the  sky  to  be  a lightless  abyss.  There  is,  therefore,  no 
dishonesty,  while  there  is  much  delight,  in  the  irresistibly 
contrary  impression.  In  the  same  way,  so  long  as  we  see  the 
stones  and  joints,  and  are  not  deceived  as  to  the  points  of 
support  in  any  piece  of  architecture,  we  may  rather  praise 
than  regret  the  dextrous  artifices  which  compel  us  to  feel  as 
if  there  were  fibre  in  its  shafts  and  life  in  its  branches.  Nor 
is  even  the  concealment  of  the  support  of  the  external  but- 
tress reprehensible,  so  long  as  the  pillars  are  not  sensibly  in- 
adequate to  their  duty.  For  the  weight  of  a roof  is  a circum- 
stance of  which  the  spectator  generally  has  no  idea,  and  the 
provisions  for  it,  consequently,  circumstances  whose  neces- 
sity or  adaptation  he  could  not  understand.  It  is  no  deceit, 
therefore,  when  the  weight  to  be  borne  is  necessarily  un- 
known, to  conceal  also  the  means  of  bearing  it,  leaving  only 
to  be  perceived  so  much  of  the  support  as  is  indeed  adequate 
to  the  weight  supposed.  For  the  shafts  do,  indeed,  bear  as 
much  as  they  are  ever  imagined  to  bear,  and  the  system  of 
added  support  is  no  more,  as  a matter  of  conscience,  to  be 
exhibited,  than,  in  the  human  or  any  other  form,  mechanical 
provisions  for  those  functions  which  are  themselves  unper- 
ceived. 

But  the  moment  that  the  conditions  of  weight  are  compre- 
hended, both  truth  and  feeling  require  that  the  conditions 
of  support  should  be  also  comprehended.  Nothing  can  be 
worse,  either  as  judged  by  the  taste  or  the  conscience,  than 


42 


THE  LAMP  OF  TRUTH. 


affectedly  inadequate  supports — suspensions  in  air,  and  othei 
such  tricks  and  vanities.  Mr.  Hope  wisely  reprehends,  for 
this  reason,  the  arrangement  of  the  main  piers  of  St.  Sophia 
at  Constantinople.  King’s  College  Chapel,  Cambridge,  is  a 
piece  of  architectural  juggling,  if  possible  still  more  to  be 
condemned,  because  less  sublime. 

YHI.  With  deceptive  concealments  of  structure  are  to  be 
classed,  though  still  more  blameable,  deceptive  assumptions  of 
it — the  introduction  of  members  which  should  have,  or  profess 
to  have,  a duty,  and  have  none.  One  of  the  most  general  in- 
stances of  this  will  be  found  in  the  form  of  the  flying  buttress 
in  late  Gothic.  The  use  of  that  member  is,  of  course,  to  con- 
vey support  from  one  pier  to  another  when  the  plan  of  the 
building  renders  it  necessary  or  desirable  that  the  supporting 
masses  should  be  divided  into  groups,  the  most  frequent  neces- 
sity of  this  kind  arising  from  the  intermediate  range  of  chapels 
or  aisles  between  the  nave  or  choir  walls  and  their  supporting 
piers.  The  natural,  healthy,  and  beautiful  arrangement  is  that 
of  a steeply  sloping  bar  of  stone,  sustained  by  an  arch  with  its 
spandril  carried  farthest  down  on  the  lowest  side,  and  dying 
into  the  vertical  of  the  outer  pier  ; that  pier  being,  of  course, 
not  square,  but  rather  a piece  of  wall  set  at  right  angles  to  the 
supported  walls,  and,  if  need  be,  crowned  by  a pinnacle  to  give 
it  greater  weight.  The  whole  arrangement  is  exquisitely  car- 
ried out  in  the  choir  of  Beauvais.  In  later  Gothic  the  pinnacle 
became  gradually  a decorative  member,  and  was  used  in  all 
places  merely  for  the  sake  of  its  beauty.  There  is  no  objection 
to  this  ; it  is  j ust  as  lawful  to  build  a pinnacle  for  its  beauty  as 
a tower  ; but  also  the  buttress  became  a decorative  member ; 
and  was  used,  first,  where  it  wras  not  wanted,  and,  secondly,  in 
forms  in  which  it  could  be  of  no  use,  becoming  a mere  tie,  not 
between  the  pier  and  wall,  but  between  the  wall  and  the  top 
of  the  decorative  pinnacle,  thus  attaching  itself  to  the  very 
point  where  its  thrust,  if  it  made  any,  could  not  be  resisted. 
The  most  flagrant  instance  of  this  barbarism  that  1 remember 
(though  it  prevails  partially  in  all  the  spires  of  the  Nether- 
lands), is  the  lantern  of  St.  Ouen  at  Kouen,  where  the  pierced 
buttress,  having  an  ogee  curve,  looks  about  as  much  calculated 


THE  LAMP  OF  TRUTH. 


43 


to  bear  a thrust  as  a switch  of  willow ; and  the  pinnacles,  huge 
and  richly  decorated,  have  evidently  no  work  to  do  whatsoever, 
but  stand  round  the  central  tower,  like  four  idle  servants,  as 
they  are — heraldic  supporters,  that  central  tower  being  merely 
a hollow  crown,  which  needs  no  more  buttressing  than  a 
basket  does.  In  fact,  I do  not  know  anything  more  strange  or 
unwise  than  the  praise  lavished  upon  this  lantern  ; it  is  one  of 
the  basest  pieces  of  Gothic  in  Europe  ; its  flamboyant  traceries 
of  the  last  and  most  degraded  forms  ; 5 and  its  entire  plan  and 
decoration  resembling,  and  deserving  little  more  credit  than, 
the  burnt  sugar  ornaments  of  elaborate  confectionery.  There 
are  hardly  any  of  the  magnificent  and  serene  constructions  of 
the  early  Gothic  which  have  not,  in  the  course  of  time,  been 
gradually  thinned  and  pared  away  into  these  skeletons,  which 
sometimes  indeed,  when  their  lines  truly  follow  the  structure 
of  the  original  masses,  have  an  interest  like  that  of  the  fibrous 
framework  of  leaves  from  which  the  substance  has  been  dis- 
solved, but  which  are  usually  distorted  as  well  as  emaciated,  and 
remain  but  the  sickly  phantoms  and  mockeries  of  things  that 
were  ; they  are  to  true  architecture  what  the  Greek  ghost  was 
to  the  armed  and  living  frame  ; and  the  very  winds  that  whis- 
tle through  the  threads  of  them,  are  to  the  diapasoned  echoes 
of  the  ancient  walls,  as  to  the  voice  of  the  man  was  the  pining 
of  the  spectre.6 

IX.  Perhaps  the  most  fruitful  source  of  these  kinds  of  cor- 
ruption which  we  have  to  guard  against  in  recent  times,  is  one 
which,  nevertheless,  comes  in  a “ questionable  shape,”  and  of 
which  it  is  not  easy  to  determine  the  proper  laws  and  limils  ; 
I mean  the  use  of  iron.  The  definition  of  the  art  of  architect- 
ure, given  in  the  first  chapter,  is  independent  of  its  materials  : 
nevertheless,  that  art  having  been,  up  to  the  beginning  of  the 
present  century,  practised  for  the  most  part  in  clay,  stone,  or 
wood,  it  has  resulted  that  the  sense  of  proportion  and  the  laws 
of  structure  have  been  based,  the  one  altogether,  the  other  in 
great  part,  on  the  necessities  consequent  on  the  employment 
of  those  materials ; and  that  the  entire  or  principal  employ- 
ment of  metallic  framework  would,  therefore,  be  generally  felt 
as  a departure  from  the  first  principles  of  the  art.  Abstract- 


THE  LAMP  OF  TRUTH. 


$4 

edly  there  appears  no  reason  why  iron  should  not  be  used  ah 
well  as  wood  ; and  the  time  is  probably  near  when  a new  sys- 
tem of  architectural  laws  will  be  developed,  adapted  entirely 
to  metallic  construction.  But  I believe  that  the  tendency  of 
all  present  sympathy  and  association  is  to  limit  the  idea  of 
architecture  to  non-metallic  work  ; and  that  not  without  reason. 
For  architecture  being  in  its  perfection  the  earliest,  as  in  its 
elements  it  is  necessarily  the  first,  of  arts,  will  always  precede, 
in  any  barbarous  nation,  the  possession  of  the  science  necessary 
either  for  the  obtaining  or  the  management  of  iron.  Its  first 
existence  and  its  earliest  laws  must,  therefore,  depend  upon  the 
use  of  materials  accessible  in  quantity,  and  on  the  surface  of 
the  earth  ; that  is  to  say,  clay,  wood,  or  stone  : and  as  I think 
it  cannot  but  be  generally  felt  that  one  of  the  chief  dignities  of 
architecture  is  its  historical  use ; and  since  the  latter  is  partly 
dependent  on  consistency  of  style,  it  will  be  felt  right  to  retain 
as  far  as  may  be,  even  in  periods  of  more  advanced  science, 
the  materials  and  principles  of  earlier  ages. 

X.  But  wdiether  this  be  granted  me  or  not,  the  fact  is,  that 
every  idea  respecting  size,  proportion,  decoration,  or  construc- 
tion, on  which  we  are  at  present  in  the  habit  of  acting  or  judg- 
ing, depends  on  presupposition  of  such  materials : and  as  I 
both  feel  myself  unable  to  escape  the  influence  of  these  preju- 
dices, and  believe  that  my  readers  will  be  equally  so,  it  may 
be  perhaps  permitted  to  me  to  assume  that  true  architecture 
does  not  admit  iron  as  a constructive  material,7  and  that  such 
works  as  the  cast-iron  central  spire  of  Bouen  Cathedral,  or  the 
iron  roofs  and  pillars  of  our  railway  stations,  and  of  some  of 
our  churches,  are  not  architecture  at  all.  Yet  it  is  evident 
that  metals  may,  and  sometimes  must,  enter  into  the  construc- 
tion to  a certain  extent,  as  nails  in  wooden  architecture,  and 
therefore  as  legitimately  rivets  and  solderings  in  stone  ; neither 
can  we  well  deny  to  the  Gothic  architect  the  power  of  support- 
ing statues,  pinnacles,  or  traceries  by  iron  bars ; and  if  we 
grant  this  I do  not  see  how  we  can  help  allowing  Brunelleschi 
his  iron  chain  around  the  dome  of  Florence,  or  the  builders 
of  Salisbury  their  elaborate  iron  binding  of  the  central  tower.8 
If,  however,  we  would  not  fall  into  the  old  sophistry  of  the 


THE  LAMP  OF  TRUTH. 


45 


grains  of  corn  and  the  heap,  we  must  find  a rule  which  may 
enable  us  to  stop  somewhere.  This  rule  is,  I think,  thaS 
metals  may  be  used  as  a cement  but  not  as  a support.  For  as 
cements  of  other  kinds  are  often  so  strong  that  the  stones  may 
easier  be  broken  than  separated,  and  the  wall  becomes  a solid 
mass  without  for  that  reason  losing  the  character  of  architect- 
ure, there  is  no  reason  why,  when  a nation  has  obtained  the 
knowledge  and  practice  of  iron  work,  metal  rods  or  rivets 
should  not  be  used  in  the  place  of  cement,  and  establish  the 
same  or  a greater  strength  and  adherence,  without  in  any  wise 
inducing  departure  from  the  types  and  system  of  architecture 
before  established ; nor  does  it  make  any  difference  except  as 
to  sightliness,  whether  the  metal  bands  or  rods  so  employed, 
be  in  the  body  of  the  wall  or  on  its  exterior,  or  set  as  stays 
and  cross-bands  ; so  only  that  the  use  of  them  be  always  and 
distinctly  one  which  might  be  superseded  by  mere  strength 
of  cement ; as  for  instance  if  a pinnacle  or  muilion  be  propped 
or  tied  by  an  iron  band,  it  is  evident  that  the  iron  only  pre- 
vents the  separation  of  the  stones  by  lateral  force,  which  the 
cement  would  have  done,  had  it  been  strong  enough.  But  the 
moment  that  the  iron  in  the  least  degree  takes  the  place  of 
the  stone,  and  acts  by  its  resistance  to  crushing,  and  bears 
superincumbent  weight,  or  if  it  acts  by  its  own  weight  as  a 
counterpoise,  and  so  supersedes  the  use  of  pinnacles  or  but- 
tresses in  resisting  a lateral  thrust,  or  if,  in  the  form  of  a rod 
or  girder,  it  is  used  to  do  what  wooden  beams  would  have 
done  as  well,  that  instant  the  building  ceases,  so  far  as  such 
applications  of  metal  extend,  to  be  true  architecture. 

XI.  The  limit,  however,  thus  determined,  is  an  ultimate 
one,  and  it  is  well  in  all  things  to  be  cautious  how  we  approach 
the  utmost  limit  of  lawfulness  ; so  that,  although  the  employ- 
ment of  metal  within  this  limit  cannot  be  considered  as  de- 
stroying the  very  being  and  nature  of  architecture,  it  will,  if, 
extravagant  and  frequent,  derogate  from  the  dignity  of  the 
work,  as  well  as  (which  is  especially  to  our  present  point)  from 
its  honesty.  For  although  the  spectator  is  not  informed  as  to 
the  quantity  or  strength  of  the  cement  employed,  he  will  gen- 
erally conceive  the  stones  of  the  building  to  be  separable  £ 


THE  LAMP  OF  TRUTH. 


and  his  estimate  of  the  skill  of  the  architect  will  be  based  in  a 
great  measure  on  his  supposition  of  this  condition,  and  of  the  dif- 
ficulties attendant  upon  it : so  that  it  is  always  more  honorable, 
and  it  has  a tendency  to  render  the  style  of  architecture  both 
more  masculine  and  more  scientific,  to  employ  stone  and  mortar 
simply  as  such,  and  to  do  as  much  as  possible  with  the  weight 
of  the  one  and  the  strength  of  the  other,  and  rather  sometimes 
to  forego  a grace,  or  to  confess  a weakness,  than  attain  the  one, 
or  conceal  the  other,  by  means  verging  upon  dishonesty. 

Nevertheless,  where  the  design  is  of  such  delicacy  and 
slightness  as,  in  some  parts  of  very  fair  and  finished  edifices, 
it  is  desirable  that  it  should  be ; and  where  both  its  com- 
pletion and  security  are  in  a measure  dependent  on  the  use 
of  metal,  let  not  such  use  be  reprehended ; so  only  that  as 
much  is  done  as  may  be,  by  good  mortar  and  good  masonry 
and  no  slovenly  workmanship  admitted  through  confidence 
in  the  iron  helps ; for  it  is  in  this  license  as  in  that  of  wine, 
a man  may  use  it  for  his  infirmities,  but  not  for  his  nourish- 
ment. 

XII.  And,  in  order  to  avoid  an  over  use  of  this  liberty,  it 
would  be  well  to  consider  what  application  may  be  conven- 
iently made  of  the  dovetailing  and  various  adjusting  of  stones  ; 
for  when  any  artifice  is  necessary  to  help  the  mortar,  certainly 
this  ought  to  come  before  the  use  of  metal,  for  it  is  both 
safer  and  more  honest.  I cannot  see  that  any  objection  can 
be  made  to  the  fitting  of  the  stones  in  any  shapes  the  archi- 
tect pleases  : for  although  it  would  not  be  desirable  to  see 
buildings  put  together  like  Chinese  puzzles,  there  must  al- 
ways be  a check  upon  such  an  abuse  of  the  practice  in  its 
difficulty  ; nor  is  it  necessary  that  it  should  be  always  ex- 
hibited, so  that  it  be  understood  by  the  spectator  as  an  ad- 
mitted help,  and  that  no  principal  stones  are  introduced  in 
positions  apparently  impossible  /or  them  to  retain,  although 
a riddle  here  and  there,  in  unimportant  features,  may  some- 
times serve  to  draw  the  eye  to  the  masonry,  and  make  it  in- 
teresting, as  well  as  to  give  a delightful  sense  of  a kind  of 
necromantic  power  in  the  architect.  There  is  a pretty  one 
in  the  lintel  of  the  lateral  door  of  the  cathedral  of  Prato 


THE  LAMP  OF  TRUTH. 


4 7 


(Plate  IV.  fig.  4.)  ; where  the  maintenance  of  the  visibly 
separate  stones,  alternate  marble  and  serpentine,  cannot  be 
understood  until  their  cross-cutting  is  seen  below.  Each 
block  is,  of  course,  of  the  form  given  in  fig.  5. 

XTTT.  Lastly,  before  leaving  the  subject  of  structural  de- 
ceits, I would  remind  the  architect  who  thinks  that  I am  un- 
necessarily and  narrowly  limiting  his  resources  or  his  art. 
that  the  highest  greatness  and  the  highest  wisdom  are  shown, 
the  first  by  a noble  submission  to,  the  second  by  a thoughtful 
providence  for,  certain  voluntarily  admitted  restraints.  Noth- 
ing is  more  evident  than  this,  in  that  supreme  government 
which  is  the  example,  as  it  is  the  centre,  of  all  others.  The 
Divine  Wisdom  is,  and  can  be,  shown  to  us  only  in  its  meeting 
and  contending  with  the  difficulties  which  are  voluntarily,  and 
for  the  sake  of  that  contest , admitted  by  the  Divine  Omnipo- 
tence : and  these  difficulties,  observe,  occur  in  the  form  of 
natural  laws  or  ordinances,  which  might,  at  many  times  and 
in  countless  ways,  be  infringed  with  apparent  advantage,  but 
which  are  never  infringed,  whatever  costly  arrangements  or 
adaptations  their  observance  may  necessitate  for  the  accom- 
plishment of  given  purposes.  The  example  most  apposite  to 
our  present  subject  is  the  structure  of  the  bones  of  animals. 
No  reason  can  be  given,  I believe,  why  the  system  of  the 
higher  animals  should  not  have  been  made  capable,  as  that  of 
the  Infusoria  is,  of  secreting  flint,  instead  of  phosphate  of 
lime,  or  more  naturally  still,  carbon  ; so  framing  the  bones  of 
adamant  at  once.  The  elephant  or  rhinoceros,  had  the  earthy 
part  of  their  bones  been  made  of  diamond,  might  have  been 
as  agile  and  light  as  grasshoppers,  find  other  animals  might 
have  been  framed  far  more  magnificently  colossal  than  any 
that  walk  the  earth.  In  other  worlds  we  may,  perhaps,  see 
such  creations  ; a creation  for  every  element,  and  elements  in- 
finite. But  the  architecture  of  animals  here,  is  appointed  by 
God  to  be  a marble  architecture,  not  a flint  nor  adamant 
architecture  ; and  all  manner  of  expedients  are  adopted  to  at- 
tain the  utmost  degree  of  strength  and  size  possible  under 
that  great  limitation.  The  jaw  of  the  ichthyosaurus  is  pieced 
and  riveted,  the  leg  of  the  megatherium  is  a foot  thick,  and 


THE  LAMP  OF  TROTH. 


48 

the  head  of  the  myodon  has  a double  skull ; we,  in  our  wis- 
dom, should,  doubtless,  have  given  the  lizard  a steel  jaw,  and 
the  myodon  a cast-iron  headpiece,  and  forgotten  the  great 
principle  to  which  all  creation  bears  witness,  that  order  and 
system  are  nobler  things  than  power.  But  God  shows  us  in 
Himself,  strange  as  it  may  seem,  not  only  authoritative  per- 
fection, but  even  the  perfection  of  Obedience — an  obedience 
to  His  own  laws : and  in  the  cumbrous  movement  of  those 
unwieldiest  of  His  creatures  we  are  reminded,  even  in  His 
divine  essence,  of  that  attribute  of  uprightness  in  the  hu- 
man creature  “that  sweareth  to  his  own  hurt  and  change th 
not.” 

XIV.  2d.  Surface  Deceits.  These  may  be  generally  denned 
as  the  inducing  the  supposition  of  some  form  or  material 
which  does  not  actually  exist ; as  commonly  in  the  painting 
of  wood  to  represent  marble,  or  in  the  painting  of  ornaments 
in  deceptive  relief,  &c.  But  we  must  be  careful  to  observe, 
that  the  evil  of  them  consists  always  in  definitely  attempted 
deception , and  that  it  is  a matter  of  some  nicety  to  mark  the 
point  where  deception  begins  or  ends. 

Thus,  for  instance,  the  roof  of  Milan  Cathedral  is  seemingly 
covered  with  elaborate  fan  tracery,  forcibly  enough  painted  to 
enable  it,  in  its  dark  and  removed  position,  to  deceive  a care- 
less observer.  This  is,  of  course,  gross  degradation  ; it  de- 
stroys much  of  the  dignity  even  of  the  rest  of  the  building, 
and  is  in  the  very  strongest  terms  to  be  reprehended. 

The  roof  of  the  Sistine  Chapel  has  much  architectural  de- 
sign in  grissaille  mingled  with  the  figures  of  its  frescoes  ; and 
the  effect  is  increase  of  dignity. 

In  what  lies  the  distinctive  character? 

In  two  points,  principally  : — First.  That  the  architecture 
is  so  closely  associated  with  the  figures,  and  has  so  grand  fel- 
lowship with  them  in  its  forms  and  cast  shadows,  that  both 
are  at  once  felt  to  be  of  a piece  ; and  as  the  figures  must  neces- 
sarilv  be  painted,  the  architecture  is  known  to  be  so  too 
There  is  thus  no  deception. 

Second.  That  so  great  a painter  as  Michael  Angelo  would 
always  stop  short  in  such  minor  parts  of  his  design,  of  the  de« 


THE  LAMP  OF  TRUTH. 


49 


gree  of  vulgar  force  which  would  be  necessary  to  induce  the 
supposition  of  their  reality ; and,  strangely  as  it  may  sound, 
would  never  paint  badly  enough  to  deceive. 

But  though  right  and  wrong  are  thus  found  broadly  opposed 
in  works  severally  so  mean  and  so  mighty  as  the  roof  of  Milan 
and  that  of  the  Sistine,  there  are  works  neither  so  great  nor  so 
mean,  in  which  the  limits  of  right  are  vaguely  defined,  and 
will  need  some  care  to  determine  ; care  only,  however,  to  ap- 
ply accurately  the  broad  principle  with  which  we  set  out,  that 
no  form  nor  material  is  to  be  deceptively  represented. 

XY.  Evidently,  then,  painting,  confessedly  such,  is  no  de- 
ception : it  does  not  assert  any  material  whatever.  Whether 
it  be  on  wood  or  on  stone,  or,  as  will  naturally  be  supposed, 
on  plaster,  does  not  matter.  Whatever  the  material,  good 
painting  makes  it  more  precious  ; nor  can  it  ever  be  said  to 
deceive  respecting  the  ground  of  which  it  gives  us  no  informa- 
tion. To  cover  brick  with  plaster,  and  this  plaster  with  fresco, 
is,  therefore,  perfectly  legitimate  ; and  as  desirable  a mode  of 
decoration  as  it  is  constant  in  the  great  periods.  Verona  and 
Venice  are  now  seen  deprived  of  more  than  half  their  former 
splendor ; it  depended  far  more  on  their  frescoes  than  their 
marbles.  The  plaster,  in  this  case,  is  to  be  considered  as  the 
gesso  ground  on  panel  or  canvas.  But  to  cover  brick  with 
cement,  and  to  divide  this  cement  with  joints  that  it  may  look 
like  stone,  is  to  tell  a falsehood  ; and  is  just  as  contemptible  a 
procedure  as  the  other  is  noble. 

- It  being  lawful  to  paint  then,  is  it  lawful  to  paint  every- 
thing ? So  long  as  the  painting  is  confessed — yes  ; but  if, 
even  in  the  slightest  degree,  the  sense  of  it  be  lost,  and  the 
thing  painted  be  supposed  real — no.  Let  us  take  a few  in- 
stances. In  the  Campo  Santo  at  Pisa,  each  fresco  is  sur- 
rounded with  a border  composed  of  flat  colored  patterns  of 
great  elegance — no  part  of  it  in  attempted  relief.  The  cer- 
tainty of  flat  surface  being  thus  secured,  the  figures,  though 
the  size  of  life,  do  not  deceive,  and  the  artist  thenceforward  is 
at  liberty  to  put  forth  his  whole  power,  and  to  lead  us  througn 
fields  and  groves,  and  depths  of  pleasant  landscape,  and  to 
soothe  us  with  the  sweet  clearness  of  far  off  sky,  and  yet 
i 


50 


THE  LAMP  OF  TRUTH. 


never  lose  the  severity  of  his  primal  purpose  of  architectural 
decoration. 

In  the  Camera  di  Correggio  of  San  Lodovico  at  Parma,  the 
trellises  of  vine  shadow  the  walls,  as  if  with  an  actual  arbor ; 
and  the  troops  of  children,  peeping  through  the  oval  open- 
ings, luscious  in  color  and  faint  in  light,  may  well  be  ex- 
pected every  instant  to  break  through,  or  hide  behind  the 
covert.  The  grace  of  their  attitudes,  and  the  evident  great- 
ness of  the  whole  work,  mark  that  it  is  painting,  and  barely 
redeem  it  from  the  charge  of  falsehood ; but  even  so  saved, 
it  is  utterly  unworthy  to  take  a place  among  noble  or  legiti- 
mate architectural  decoration. 

In  the  cupola  of  the  duomo  of  Parma  the  same  painter  has 
represented  the  Assumption  with  so  much  deceptive  power, 
that  he  has  made  a dome  of  some  thirty  feet  diameter  look 
like  a cloud- wrapt  opening  in  the  seventh  heaven,  crowded 
with  a rushing  sea  of  angels.  Is  this  wrong?  Not  so  : for 
the  subject  at  once  precludes  the  possibility  of  deception. 
We  might  have  taken  the  vines  for  a veritable  pergoda,  and 
the  children  for  its  haunting  ragazzi ; but  we  know  the  stayed 
clouds  and  moveless  angels  must  be  man’s  work  ; let  him  put 
his  utmost  strength  to  it  and  welcome,  he  can  enchant  us, 
but  cannot  betray. 

We  may  thus  apply  the  rule  to  the  highest,  as  well  as  the 
art  of  daily  occurrence,  always  remembering  that  more  is  to 
be  forgiven  to  the  great  painter  than  to  the  mere  decorative 
workman  ; and  this  especially,  because  the  former,  even  in 
deceptive  portions,  wall  not  trick  us  so  grossly  ; as  we  have 
just  seen  in  Correggio,  where  a worse  painter  would  have 
made  the  thing  look  like  life  at  once.  There  is,  however,  in 
room,  villa,  or  garden  decoration,  some  fitting  admission  of 
trickeries  of  this  kind,  as  of  pictured  landscapes  at  the  ex- 
tremities of  alleys  and  arcades,  and  ceilings  like  skies,  or 
painted  with  prolongations  upwards  of  the  architecture  of  the 
walls,  which  things  have  sometimes  a certain  luxury  and 
pleasureableness  in  places  meant  for  idleness,  and  are  in- 
nocent enough  as  long  as  they  are  regarded  as  mere  toys. 

XYI.  Touching  the  false  representation  of  material,  the 


THE  LAMP  OF  TRUTH 


51 


question  is  infinitely  more  simple,  and  the  law  more  sweep, 
ing  ; all  such  imitations  are  utterly  base  and  inadmissible. 
It  is  melancholy  to  think  of  the  time  and  expense  lost  in 
marbling  the  shop  fronts  of  London  alone,  and  of  the  waste 
of  our  resources  in  absolute  vanities,  in  things  about  which 
no  mortal  cares,  by  which  no  eye  is  ever  arrested,  unless 
painfully,  and  which  do  not  add  one  whit  to  comfort  or  clean- 
liness, or  even  to  that  great  object  of  commercial  art — con- 
spicuousness.  But  in  architecture  of  a higher  rank,  how 
much  more  is  it  to  be  condemned  ? I have  made  it  a rule  in 
the  present  work  not  to  blame  specifically ; but  I may,  per- 
haps, be  permitted,  while  I express  my  sincere  admiration  of 
the  very  noble  entrance  and  general  architecture  of  the 
British  Museum,  to  express  also  my  regret  that  the  noble 
granite  foundation  of  the  staircase  should  be  mocked  at  its 
landing  by  an  imitation,  the  more  blameable  because  tolerably 
successful.  The  only  effect  of  it  is  to  cast  a suspicion  upon 
the  true  stones  below,  and  upon  every  bit  of  granite  after- 
wards encountered.  One  feels  a doubt,  after  it,  of  the  honesty 
of  Memnoa  himself.  But  even  this,  however  derogatory  to 
the  noble  architecture  around  it,  is  less  painful  than  the 
want  of  feeling  with  which,  in  our  cheap  modern  churches, 
we  suffer  the  wall  decorator  to  erect  about  the  altar  frame- 
works and  pediments  daubed  with  mottled  color,  and  to  dye 
in  the  same  fashions  such  skeletons  or  caricatures  of  columns 
as  may  emerge  above  the  pews  ; this  is  not  merely  bad  taste  ; 
it  is  no  unimportant  or  excusable  error  which  brings  even 
these  shadows  of  vanity  and  falsehood  into  the  house  of 
prayer.  The  first  condition  which  just  feeling  requires  in 
church  furniture  is,  that  it  should  be  simple  and  unaffected, 
not  fictitious  nor  tawdry.  It  may  be  in  our  power  to  make  it 
beautiful,  but  let  it  at  least  be  pure  ; and  if  we  cannot  permit 
much  to  the  architect,  do  not  let  us  permit  anything  to  the 
upholsterer  ; if  we  keep  to  solid  stone  and  solid  wood,  white- 
washed, if  we  like,  for  cleanliness’  sake  (for  whitewash  has  so 
often  been  used  as  the  dress  of  noble  things  that  it  has  thence 
received  a kind  of  nobility  itself),  it  must  be  a bad  design  in- 
deed which  is  grossly  offensive.  I recollect  no  instance  of  a 


52 


THE  LAMP  OF  TRUTH. \ 


want  of  sacred  character,  or  of  any  marked  and  painful  ugliness^ 
in  the  simplest  or  the  most  awkwardly  built  village  church, 
where  stone  and  wood  were  roughly  and  nakedly  used,  and  the 
windows  latticed  with  white  glass.  But  the  smoothly  stuc- 
coed walls,  the  Hat  roofs  with  ventilator  ornaments,  the 
barred  windows  with  jaundiced  borders  and  dead  ground 
square  panes,  the  gilded  or  bronzed  wood,  the  painted  iron, 
the  wretched  upholstery  of  curtains  and  cushions,  and  pew 
heads  and  altar  railings,  and  Birmingham  metal  candlesticks, 
and,  above  all,  the  green  and  yellow  sickness  of  the  false 
marble — disguises  all,  observe  ; falsehoods  all — who  are  they 
who  like  these  things  ? who  defend  them  ? who  do  them  ? I 
have  never  spoken  to  any  one  who  did  like  them,  though  to 
many  who  thought  them  matters  of  no  consequence.  Per- 
haps not  to  religion  (though  I cannot  but  believe  that  there 
are  many  to  whom,  as  to  myself,  such  things  are  serious  ob- 
stacles to  the  repose  of  mind  and  temper  which  should  pre- 
cede devotional  exercises)  ; but  to  the  general  tone  of  our 
judgment  and  feeling — yes ; for  assuredly  we  shall  regard, 
with  tolerance,  if  not  with  affection,  whatever  forms  of  ma- 
terial things  we  have  been  in  the  habit  of  associating  with  our 
worship,  and  be  little  prepared  to  detect  or  blame  hypocrisy, 
meanness,  and  disguise  in  other  kinds  of  decoration  when  we 
suffer  objects  belonging  to  the  most  solemn  of  all  services  to 
be  tricked  out  in  a fashion  so  fictitious  and  unseemly. 

XVXI.  Painting,  however,  is  not  the  only  mode  in  which 
material  may  be  concealed,  or  rather  simulated  ; for  merely 
to  conceal  is,  as  we  have  seen,  no  wrong.  Whitewash,  for  in- 
stance, though  often  (by  no  means  always)  to  be  regretted  as 
a concealment,  is  not  to  be  blamed  as  a falsity.  It  shows  it- 
self for  what  it  is,  and  asserts  nothing  of  what  is  beneath  it. 
Gilding  has  become,  from  its  frequent  use,  equally  innocent. 
It  is  understood  for  what  it  is,  a film  merely,  and  is,  therefore, 
allowable  to  any  extent.  I do  not  say  expedient : it  is  one  of 
the  most  abused  means  of  magnificence  we  possess,  and  I 
much  doubt  whether  any  use  we  ever  make  of  it,  balances 
that  loss  of  pleasure,  which,  from  the  frequent  sight  and  per- 
petual suspicion  of  it,  we  suffer  in  the  contemplation  of  any* 


THE  LAMP  OF  TRUTH, 


53 


thing*  that  is  verily  of  gold.  I think  gold  was  meant  to  be  sel- 
dom seen  and  to  be  admired  as  a precious  thing ; and  I some- 
times wish  that  truth  should  so  far  literally  prevail  as  that  all 
should  be  gold  that  glittered,  or  rather  that  nothing  should 
glitter  that  was  not  gold.  Nevertheless,  nature  herself  does 
not  dispense  with  such  semblance,  but  uses  light  for  it ; and 
I have  too  great  a love  for  old  and  saintly  art  to  part  with  its 
burnished  field,  or  radiant  nimbus  ; only  it  should  be  used 
with  respect,  and  to  express  magnificence,  or  sacredness,  and 
not  in  lavish  vanity,  or  in  sign  painting.  Of  its  expedience, 
however,  any  more  than  of  that  of  color,  it  is  not  here  the  place 
to  speak  ; we  are  endeavoring  to  determine  what  is  lawful,  not 
what  is  desirable.  Of  other  and  less  common  modes  of  dis- 
guising surface,  as  of  powder  of  lapis  lazuli,  or  mosaic  imita- 
tions of  colored  stones,  I need  hardly  speak.  The  rule  will 
apply  to  all  alike,  that  whatever  is  pretended,  is  wrong  ; com- 
monly enforced  also  by  the  exceeding  ugliness  and  insufficient 
appearance  of  such  methods,  as  lately  in  the  style  of  renova- 
tion by  which  half  the  houses  in  Venice  have  been  defaced, 
the  brick  covered  first  with  stucco,  and  this  painted  with 
zigzag  veins  in  imitation  of  alabaster.  But  there  is  one  more 
form  of  architectural  fiction,  which  is  so  constant  in  the  great 
periods  that  it  needs  respectful  judgment.  I mean  the  facing 
of  brick  with  precious  stone. 

XVIII.  It  is  well  known,  that  what  is  meant  by  a church’s 
being  built  of  marble  is,  in  nearly  all  cases,  only  that  a veneer- 
ing of  marble  has  been  fastened  on  the  rough  brick  -wall,  built 
with  certain  projections  to  receive  it ; and  that  what  appear 
to  be  massy  stones,  are  nothing  more  than  external  slabs. 

Now,  it  is  evident,  that,  iu  this  case,  the  question  of  right 
is  on  the  same  ground  as  in  that  of  gilding.  If  it  be  clearly 
understood  that  a marble  facing  does  not  pretend  or  imply  a 
marble  wall,  there  is  no  harm  in  it ; and  as  it  is  also  evident 
that,  when  very  precious  stones  are  used,  as  jaspers  and  ser- 
pentines, it  must  become,  not  only  an  extravagant  and  vain 
increase  of  expense,  but  sometimes  an  actual  impossibility,  to 
obtain  mass  of  them  enough  to  build  with,  there  is  no  resource 
but  this  of  veneering  ; nor  is  there  anything  to  be  alleged 


54 


THE  LAMP  OF  TRUTH. 


against  it  on  the  head  of  durability,  such  work  haying  been 
by  experience  found  to  last  as  long,  and  in  as  perfect  condi- 
tion, as  any  kind  of  masonry.  It  is,  therefore,  to  be  considered 
as  simply  an  art  of  mosaic  on  a large  scale,  the  ground  being 
of  brick,  or  any  other  material ; and  when  lovely  stones  are  to 
be  obtained,  it  is  a manner  which  should  be  thoroughly  under- 
stood, and  often  practised.  Nevertheless,  as  we  esteem  the 
shaft  of  a column  more  highly  for  its  being  of  a single  block, 
and  as  wTe  do  not  regret  the  loss  of  substance  and  value  which 
there  is  in  things  of  solid  gold,  silver,  agate,  or  ivory  ; so  I 
think  the  walls  themselves  may  be  regarded  with  a more  just 
complacency  if  they  are  known  to  be  all  of  noble  substance  ; 
and  that  rightly  weighing  the  demands  of  the  two  principles 
of  which  we  have  hitherto  spoken — Sacrifice  and  Truth,  we 
should  sometimes  rather  spare  external  ornament  than  dimin- 
ish the  unseen  value  and  consistency  of  what  we  do  ; and  I 
believe  that  a better  manner  of  design,  and  a more  careful  and 
studious,  if  less  abundant  decoration  would  follow,  upon  the 
consciousness  of  thoroughness  in  the  substance.  And,  indeed, 
this  is  to  be  remembered,  with  respect  to  all  the  points  we 
have  examined  ; that  while  we  have  traced  the  limits  of  license, 
we  have  not  fixed  those  of  that  high  rectitude  which  refuses 
license.  It  is  thus  true  that  there  is  no  falsity,  and  much 
beauty  in  the  use  of  external  color,  and  that  it  is  lawful  to  paint 
either  pictures  or  patterns  on  whatever  surfaces  may  seem  to 
need  enrichment.  But  it  is  not  less  true,  that  such  practices 
are  essentially  un architectural ; and  while  we  cannot  say  that 
there  is  actual  danger  in  an  over  use  of  them,  seeing  that  they 
have  been  always  used  most  lavishly  in  the  times  of  most  noble 
art,  yet  they  divide  the  work  into  two  parts  and  kinds,  one  of 
less  durability  than  the  other,  which  dies  away  from  it  in  pro- 
cess of  ages,  and  leaves  it,  unless’  it  have  noble  qualities  of  its 
own,  naked  and  bare.  That  enduring  noblesse  I should,  there- 
fore, call  truly  architectural ; and  if  is  not  until  this  has  been 
secured  that  the  accessory  power  of  painting  may  be  called  in, 
for  the  delight  of  the  immediate  time  ; nor  this,  as  I think, 
until  every  resource  of  a more  stable  kind  has  been  exhausted. 
The  true  colors  of  architecture  are  those  of  natural  stone,  and 


PLATE  n.— (Page  55— Vol.  Y.) 

Part  of  the  Cathedral  of  St.  Lo,  Normandy. 


THE  LAMP  OF  TRUTH. 


55 


I would  fain  see  these  taken  advantage  of  to  the  full.  Every 
variety  of  hue,  from  pale  yellow  to  purple,  passing  through 
orange,  red,  and  brown,  is  entirely  at  our  command  ; nearly 
every  kind  of  green  and  gray  is  also  attainable : and  with 
these,  and  pure  white,  what  harmonies  might  we  not  achieve  ? 
Of  stained  and  variegated  stone,  the  quantity  is  unlimited,  the 
kinds  innumerable  ; where  brighter  colors  are  required,  let 
glass,  and  gold  protected  by  glass,  be  used  in  mosaic — a kind 
of  work  as  durable  as  the  solid  stone,  and  incapable  of  losing 
its  lustre  by  time — and  let  the  painter’s  work  be  reserved  for 
the  shadowed  loggia  and  inner  chamber.  This  is  the  true  and 
faithful  way  of  building  ; where  this  cannot  be,  the  device  of 
external  coloring  may,  indeed,  be  employed  without  dishonor  ; 
but  it  must  be  with  the  warning  reflection,  that  a time  will 
come  when  such  aids  must  pass  away,  and  when  the  building 
will  be  judged  in  its  lifelessness,  dying  the  death  of  the  dol- 
phin. Better  the  less  bright,  more  enduring  fabric.  The 
transparent  alabasters  of  San  Miniato,  and  the  mosaics  of  St. 
Mark’s,  are  more  warmly  filled,  and  more  brightly  touched,  by 
every  return  of  morning  and  evening  rays  ; while  the  hues  of 
our  cathedrals  have  died  like  the  iris  out  of  the  cloud  ; and 
the  temples  whose  azure  and  purple  once  flamed  above  the 
Grecian  promontories,  stand  in  their  faded  whiteness,  like 
snows  which  the  sunset  has  left  cold. 

XIX.  The  last  form  of  fallacy  which  it  will  be  remembered 
we  had  to  deprecate,  was  the  substitution  of  cast  or  machine 
work  for  that  of  the  hand,  generally  expressible  as  Operative 
Deceit. 

There  are  two  reasons,  both  weighty,  against  this  practice  ; 
one,  that  all  cast  and  machine  work  is  bad,  as  work  ; the 
other,  that  it  is  dishonest.  Of  its  badness,  I shall  speak  in 
another  place,  that  being  evidently  no  efficient  reason  against 
its  use  when  other  cannot  be  had.  Its  dishonesty,  however, 
which,  to  my  mind,  is  of  the  grossest  kind,  is,  I think,  a suffi- 
cient reason  to  determine  absolute  and  unconditional  rejec- 
tion of  it. 

Ornament,  as  I have  often  before  observed,  has  two  em 
tirely  distinct  sources  of  agreeableness  : one,  that  of  the  alv 


56 


THE  LAMP  OF  TRUTH. 


stract  beauty  of  its  forms,  which,  for  the  present,  we  will 
suppose  to  be  the  same  whether  they  come  from  the  hand  or 
the  machine  ; the  other,  the  sense  of  human  labor  and  care 
spent  upon  it.  How  great  this  latter  influence  we  may  per- 
haps judge,  by  considering  that  there  is  not  a cluster  of  weeds 
growing  in  any  cranny  of  ruin  which  has  not  a beauty  in  all 
respects  nearly  equal,  and,  in  some,  immeasurably  superior,  to 
that  of  the  most  elaborate  sculpture  of  its  stones  : and  that 
all  our  interest  in  the  carved  work,  our  sense  of  its  richness, 
though  it  is  tenfold  less  rich  than  the  knots  of  grass  beside 
it ; of  its  delicacy,  though  it  is  a thousand  fold  less  delicate  ; 
of  its  admirableness,  though  a millionfold  less  admirable  ; re- 
sults from  our  consciousness  of  its  being  the  work  of  poor, 
clumsy,  toilsome  man.  Its  true  delightfulness  depends  on 
our  discovering  in  it  the  record  of  thoughts,  and  intents,  and 
trials,  and  heart-breakings — of  recoveries  and  joyfulnesses  of 
success  : all  this  can  be  traced  by  a practised  eye  ; but,  grant- 
ing it  even  obscure,  it  is  presumed  or  understood ; and  in 
that  is  the  worth  of  the  thing,  just  as  much  as  the  worth  of 
anything  else  we  call  precious.  The  worth  of  a diamond  is 
simply  the  understanding  of  the  time  it  must  take  to  look  for 
it  before  it  can  be  cut.  It  has  an  intrinsic  value  besides, 
which  the  diamond  has  not  (for  a diamond  has  no  more  real 
beauty  than  a piece  of  glass)  ; but  I do  not  speak  of  that  at 
present  ; I place  the  two  on  the  same  ground  ; and  I suppose 
that  hand- wrought  ornament  can  no  more  be  generally  known 
from  machine  work,  than  a diamond  can  be  known  from 
paste  ; nay,  that  the  latter  may  deceive,  for  a moment,  the 
mason’s,  as  the  other  the  jeweller’s  eye  ; and  that  it  can  be 
detected  only  by  the  closest  examination.  Yet  exactly  as  a 
woman  of  feeling  would  not  wear  false  jewels,  so  would  a 
builder  of  honor  disdain  false  ornaments.  The  using  of  them 
is  just  as  downright  and  inexcusable  a lie.  You  use  that 
which  pretends  to  a worth  which  it  has  not ; which  pretends 
to  have  cost,  and  to  be,  what  it  did  not,  and  is  not ; it  is  an 
imposition,  a vulgarity,  an  impertinence,  and  a sin.  Down 
with  it  to  the  ground,  grind  it  to  powder,  leave  its  ragged 
place  upon  the  wall,  rather  ; you  have  not  paid  for  it,  you 


THE  LAMP  OF  TRUTH. 


57 


have  no  business  with  it,  you  do  not  want  it.  Nobody  wants 
ornaments  in  this  world,  but  everybody  wants  integrity.  All 
the  fair  devices  that  ever  were  fancied,  are  not  worth  a lie. 
Leave  your  walls  as  bare  as  a planed  board,  or  build  them  o t 
baked  mud  and  chopped  straw,  if  need  be  ; but  do  not 
rough-cast  them  with  falsehood. 

This,  then,  being  our  general  law,  and  I hold  it  for  a more 
imperative  one  than  any  other  I have  asserted  ; and  this  kind 
of  dishonesty  the  meanest,  as  the  least  necessary ; for  orna- 
ment is  an  extravagant  and  inessential  thing  ; and,  therefore, 
if  fallacious,  utterly  base — this,  I say,  being  our  general  law, 
there  are,  nevertheless,  certain  exceptions  respecting  particu- 
lar substances  and  their  uses. 

XX.  Thus  in  the  use  of  brick  ; since  that  is  known  to  be 
originally  moulded,  there  is  no  reason  why  it  should  not  be 
moulded  into  diverse  forms.  It  will  never  be  supposed  to 
have  been  cut,  and  therefore,  will  cause  no  deception  ; it  will 
have  only  the  credit  it  deserves.  In  flat  countries,  far  from 
any  quarry  of  stone,  cast  brick  may  be  legitimately,  and  most 
successfully,  used  in  decoration,  and  that  elaborate,  and  even 
refined.  The  brick  mouldings  of  the  Palazzo  Pepoli  at 
Bologna,  and  those  which  run  round  the  market-place  of  Ver- 
celli,  are  among  the  richest  in  Italy.  So  also,  tile  and  por- 
celain work,  of  which  the  former  is  grotesquely,  but  success- 
fully, employed  in  the  domestic  architecture  of  France,  col- 
ored tiles  being  inserted  in  the  diamond  spaces  between  the 
crossing  timbers  ; and  the  latter  admirably  in  Tuscany,  in 
external  bas-reliefs,  by  the  Bobbia  family,  in  which  works, 
while  we  cannot  but  sometimes  regret  the  useless  and  ill-ar- 
ranged colors,  we  would  by  no  means  blame  the  employment 
of  a material  which,  whatever  its  defects,  excels  every  other 
in  permanence,  and,  perhaps,  requires  even  greater  skill  in  its 
management  than  marble.  For  it  is  not  the  material,  but 
the  absence  of  the  human  labor,  which  makes  the  thing 
worthless ; and  a piece  of  terra  cotta,  or  of  plaster  of  Paris, 
which  has  been  wrought  by  human  hand,  is  worth  all  the 
stone  in  Carrara,  cut  by  machinery.  It  is,  indeed,  possible, 
and  even  usual,  for  men  to  sink  into  machines  themselves,  so 


68 


THE  LAMP  OF  TRUTH. 


that  even  hand- work  has  all  the  characters  of  mechanism  ; oi 
the  difference  between  living  and  dead  hand-work  I shall 
speak  presently  ; all  that  I ask  at  present  is,  what  it  is  always 
in  oar  power  to  secure — the  confession  of  what  we  have  done, 
and  what  we  have  given  ; so  that  when  we  use  stone  at  all, 
since  all  stone  is  naturally  supposed  to  be  carved  by  hand, 
we  must  not  carve  it  by  machinery  ; neither  must  we  use  any 
artificial  stone  cast  into  shape,  nor  any  stucco  ornaments  of 
the  color  of  stone,  or  which  might  in  anywise  be  mistaken  for 
it,  as  the  stucco  mouldings  in  the  cor  tile  of  the  Palazzo  Vec- 
chio  at  Florence,  which  cast  a shame  and  suspicion  over  every 
part  of  the  building.  But  for  ductile  and  fusible  materials, 
as  clay,  iron,  and  bronze,  since  these  will  usually  be  supposed 
to  have  been  cast  or  stamped,  it  is  at  our  pleasure  to  employ 
them  as  we  will ; remembering  that  they  become  precious,  or 
otherwise,  just  in  proportion  to  the  hand- work  upon  them,  or 
to  the  clearness  of  their  reception  of  the  hand-work  of  their 
mould. 

But  I believe  no  cause  to  have  been  more  active  in  the 
degradation  of  our  natural  feeling  for  beauty,  than  the  con- 
stant use  of  cast  iron  ornaments.  The  common  iron  wrork  of 
the  middle  ages  was  as  simple  as  it  was  effective,  composed  of 
leafage  cut  flat  out  of  sheet  iron,  and  twisted  at  the  work- 
man’s will.  No  ornaments,  on  the  contrary,  are  so  cold, 
clumsy,  and  vulgar,  so  essentially  incapable  of  a fine  line,  or 
shadow,  as  those  of  cast  iron  ; and  while,  on  the  score  of  truth, 
we  can  hardly  allege  anything  against  them,  since  they  are 
always  distinguishable,  at  a glance,  from  wrought  and  ham- 
mered work,  and  stand  only  for  what  they  are,  yet  I feel  very 
strongly  that  there  is  no  hope  of  the  progress  of  the  arts  of 
any  nation  which  indulges  in  these  vulgar  and  cheap  substi- 
tutes for  real  decoration.  Their  inefficiency  and  paltriness  I 
shall  endeavor  to  show7  more  conclusively  in  another  place, 
enforcing  only,  at  present,  the  general  conclusion  that,  if  even 
honest  or  allowable,  they  are  things  in  which  we  can  never 
take  just  pride  or  pleasure,  and  must  never  be  employed  in 
any  place  wherein  they  might  either  themselves  obtain  the 
credit  of  being  other  and  better  than  they  are,  or  be  asscn 


THE  LAMP  OF  TRUTH. 


59 


dated  with  the  downright  work  to  which  it  would  be  a dis- 
grace to  be  found  in  their  company. 

Such  are,  I believe,  the  three  principal  kinds  of  fallacy  by 
which  architecture  is  liable  to  be  corrupted  ; there  are,  how- 
ever, other  and  more  subtle  forms  of  it,  against  which  it  is  less 
easy  to  guard  by  definite  law,  than  by  the  watchfulness  of  a 
manly  and  unaffected  spirit.  For,  as  it  has  been  above  no- 
ticed, there  are  certain  kinds  of  deception  which  extend  to 
impressions  and  ideas  only  ; of  which  some  are,  indeed,  of  a 
noble  use,  as  that  above  referred  to,  the  arborescent  look  of 
lofty  Gothic  aisles  ; but  of  which  the  most  part  have  so  much 
of  legerdemain  and  trickery  about  them,  that  they  will  lower 
any  style  in  which  they  considerably  prevail ; and  they  are 
likely  to  prevail  when  once  they  are  admitted,  being  apt  to 
catch  the  fancy  alike  of  uninventive  architects  and  feelingless 
spectators  ; just  as  mean  and  shallow  minds  are,  in  other 
matters,  delighted  with  the  sense  of  over-reaching,  or  tickled 
with  the  conceit  of  detecting  the  intention  to  over-reach  ; and 
when  subtleties  of  this  kind  are  accompanied  by  the  display 
of  such  dextrous  stone-cutting,  or  architectural  sleight  of 
hand,  as  may  become,  even  by  itself,  a subject  of  admiration, 
it  is  a great  chance  if  the  pursuit  of  them  do  not  gradually 
draw  us  away  from  all  regard  and  care  for  the  nobler  char- 
acter of  the  art,  and  end  in  its  total  paralysis  or  extinction. 
And  against  this  there  is  no  guarding,  but  by  stem  disdain 
of  all  display  of  dexterity  and  ingenious  device,  and  by  put- 
ting the  whole  force  of  our  fancy  into  the  arrangement  of 
masses  and  forms,  caring  no  more  how  these  masses  and 
forms  are  wrought  out,  than  a great  painter  cares  which 
way  his  pencil  strikes.  It  would  be  easy  to  give  many  in- 
stances of  the  danger  of  these  tricks  and  vanities  ; but  I 
shall  confine  myself  to  the  examination  of  one  which  has,  as 
I think,  been  the  cause  of  the  fall  of  Gothic  architecture 
throughout  Europe.  I mean  the  system  of  intersectional 
mouldings,  which,  on  account  of  its  great  importance,  and 
for  the  sake  of  the  general  reader,  I may,  perhaps,  be  par- 
doned for  explaining  elementarily. 

XXI.  I must,  in  the  first  place,  however,  refer  to  Professor 


60 


TEE  LAMP  OF  TRUTH. 


Willis’s  account  of  the  origin  of  tracery,  given  in  the  sixth 
chapter  of  his  Architecture  of  the  Middle  Ages ; since  the 
publication  of  which  I have  been  not  a little  amazed  to  hear 
of  any  attempts  made  to  resuscitate  the  inexcusably  absurd 
theory  of  its  derivation  from  imitated  vegetable  form — inex- 
cusably, I say,  because  the  smallest  acquaintance  with  early 
Gothic  architecture  would  have  informed  the  supporters  of 
that  theory  of  the  simple  fact,  that,  exactly  in  proportion  to 
the  antiquity  of  the  work,  the  imitation  of  such  organic  forms 
is  less,  and  in  the  earliest  examples  does  not  exist  at  all. 
There  cannot  be  the  shadow  of  a question,  in  the  mind  of  a 
person  familiarised  with  any  single  series  of  consecutive  ex- 
amples, that  tracery  arose  from  the  gradual  enlargement  of 
the  penetrations  of  the  shield  of  stone  which,  usually  sup- 
ported by  a central  pillar,  occupied  the  head  of  early  windows. 
Professor  Willis,  perhaps,  confines  his  observations  somewhat 
too  absolutely  to  the  double  sub-arch.  I have  given,  in  Plat 
VII.  fig.  2,  an  interesting  case  of  rude  penetration  of  a high 
and  simply  trefoiled  shield,  from  the  church  of  the  Eremitani 
at  Padua.  But  the  more  frequent  and  typical  form  is  that  of 
the  double  sub-arch,  decorated  with  various  piercings  of  the 
space  between  it  and  the  superior  arch  ; with  a simple  trefoil 
under  a round  arch,  in  the  Abbaye  aux  Hommes,  Caen 9 
(Plate  III.  fig.  1) ; with  a very  beautifully  proportioned  qua- 
trefoil,  in  the  triforium  of  Eu,  and  that  of  the  choir  ef  Lisieux ; 
with  quatrefoils,  sixfoils,  and  septfoils,  in  the  transept  towers 
of  Rouen  (Plate  III.  fig.  2)  ; with  a trefoil  awkwardly,  and  very 
small  quatrefoil  above,  at  Coutances,  (Plate  III.  fig.  3)  ■;  then, 
with  multiplications  of  the  same  figures,  pointed  or  round,  giv- 
ing very  clumsy  shapes  of  the  intermediate  stone  (fig.  4,  from 
one  of  the  nave  chapels  of  Rouen,  fig.  5,  from  one  of  the  mve 
chapels  of  Bayeaux),  and  finally,  by  thinning  out  the  stony 
ribs,  reaching  conditions  like  that  of  the  glorious  typical  form 
of  the  clerestory  of  the  apse  of  Beauvais  (fig.  6). 

XXII.  Now,  it  will  be  noticed  that,  during  the  wdiole  r-l 
this  process,  the  attention  is  kept  fixed  on  the  forms  of  thA 
penetrations,  that  is  to  say,  of  the  lights  as  seen  from  the  in- 
terior, not  of  the  intermediate  stone.  All  the  grace  of  the 


PLATE  III.— (Page  60— Yol.  V.) 

Traceries  from  Caen,  Bayeux,  Rouen,  and  Beayais. 


THE  LAMP  OF  TRUTH. 


61 


window  is  in  tlie  outline  of  its  light ; and  I have  drawn  all 
these  traceries  as  seen  from  within,  in  order  to  show  the  effect 
of  the  light  thus  treated,  at  first  in  far  off  and  separate  stars, 
and  then  gradually  enlarging,  approaching,  until  they  come 
and  stand  over  us,  as  it  were,  filling  the  whole  space  with  their 
effulgence.  And  it  is  in  this  pause  of  the  star,  that  we  have 
the  great,  pure,  and  perfect  form  of  French  Gothic  ; it  was 
at  the  instant  when  the  rudeness  of  the  intermediate  space 
had  been  finally  conquered,  when  the  light  had  expanded  to 
its  fullest,  and  yet  had  not  lost  its  radiant  unity,  principality, 
and  visible  first  causing  of  the  whole,  that  we  have  the  most 
exquisite  feeling  and  most  faultless  judgments  in  the  manage- 
ment alike  of  the  tracery  and  decorations.  I have  given,  in 
Plate  X.,  an  exquisite  example  of  it,  from  a panel  decoration 
of  the  buttresses  of  the  north  door  of  Rouen  ; and  in  order 
that  the  reader  may  understand  what  truly  fine  Gothic  w’ork 
is,  and  how  nobly  it  unites  fantasy  and  law,  as  well  as  for  our 
immediate  purpose,  it  will  be  well  that  he  should  examine  its 
sections  and  mouldings  in  detail  (they  are  described  in  the 
fourth  Chapter,  § xxvii.),  and  that  the  more  carefully,  because 
this  design  belongs  to  a period  in  which  the  most  important 
change  took  place  in  the  spirit  of  Gothic  architecture,  which, 
perhaps,  ever  resulted  from  the  natural  progress  of  any  art. 
That  tracery  marks  a pause  between  the  laying  aside  of  one 
great  ruling  principle,  and  the  taking  up  of  another  ; a pause 
as  marked,  as  clear,  as  conspicuous  to  the  distant  view  of 
after  times,  as  to  the  distant  glance  of  the  traveller  is  tho 
culminating  ridge  of  the  mountain  chain  over  which  he  has 
passed.  It  was  the  great  watershed  of  Gothic  art.  Before  it, 
all  had  been  ascent ; after  it,  all  was  decline  ; both,  indeed, 
by  winding  paths  and  varied  slopes ; both  interrupted,  lilu, 
the  gradual  rise  and  fall  of  the  passes  of  the  Alps,  by  great 
mountain  outliers,  isolated  or  branching  from  the  central 
chain,  and  by  retrograde  or  parallel  directions  of  the  valleys 
of  access.  But  the  track  of  the  human  mind  is  traceable  up 
to  that  glorious  ridge,  in  a continuous  line,  and  thence  down 
wards.  Like  a silver  zone — 


62 


THE  LAMP  OF  TRUTH. 


“Flung  about  carelessly,  it  sliines  afar, 

Catching  the  eye  in  many  a broken  link, 

In  many  a turn  and  traverse,  as  it  glides. 

And  oft  above,  and  oft  below,  appears — 

* * * * to  him  who  journeys  up 

As  though  it  were  another.” 

And  at  that  point,  and  that  instant,  reaching  the  place  that 
was  nearest  heaven,  the  builders  looked  back,  for  the  last 
time,  to  the  way  by  which  they  had  come,  and  the  scenes 
through  which  their  early  course  had  passed.  They  turned 
away  from  them  and  their  morning  light,  and  descended  to- 
wards a new  horizon,  for  a time  in  the  warmth  of  western  sun, 
but  plunging  with  every  forward  step  into  more  cold  and 
melancholy  shade. 

XXIII.  The  change  of  which  I speak,  is  inexpressible  in 
few  words,  but  one  more  important,  more  radically  influential, 
could  not  be.  It  was  the  substitution  of  the  line  for  the  mass, 
as  the  element  of  decoration. 

We  have  seen  the  mode  in  which  the  openings  or  penetra- 
tion of  the  window’  expanded,  until  what  were,  at  first,  awk- 
ward forms  of  intermediate  stone,  became  delicate  lines  of 
tracery  : and  I have  been  careful  in  pointing  out  the  peculiar 
attention  bestowed  on  the  proportion  and  decoration  of  the 
mouldings  of  the  window  at  Rouen,  in  Plate  X.,  as  compared 
with  earlier  mouldings,  because  that  beauty  and  care  are  sin- 
gularly significant.  They  mark  that  the  traceries  had  caught 
the  eye  of  the  architect.  Up  to  that  time,  up  to  the  very  last 
instant  in  which  the  reduction  and  thinning  of  the  intervening 
stone  was  consummated,  his  eye  had  been  on  the  openings  only, 
on  the  stars  of  light.  He  did  not  care  about  the  stone,  a rude 
border  of  moulding  was  all  he  needed,  it  wTas  the  penetrating 
shape  which  he  was  w’atching.  But  when  that  shape  had  re- 
ceived its  last  possible  expansion,  and  w’hen  the  stone-work 
became  an  arrangement  of  graceful  and  parallel  lines,  that 
arrangement,  like  some  form  in  a picture,  unseen  and  acciden- 
tally developed,  struck  suddenly,  inevitably,  on  the  sight.  It 
nad  literally  not  been  seen  before.  It  flashed  out  in  an  in- 
stant as  an  independent  form.  It  became  a feature  of  the 


THE  LAMP  OF  TRUTH. 


63 


work.  The  architect  took  it  under  his  care,  thought  over  it, 
and  distributed  its  members  as  we  see. 

Now,  the  great  pause  was  at  the  moment  when  the  space 
and  the  dividing  stone-work  were  both  equally  considered. 
It  did  not  last  fifty  years.  The  forms  of  the  tracery  were 
seized  with  a childish  delight  in  the  novel  source  of  beauty  ; 
and  the  intervening  space  was  cast  aside,  as  an  element  of 
decoration,  for  ever.  I have  confined  myself,  in  following  this 
change,  to  the  window,  as  the  feature  in  which  it  is  clearest. 
But  the  transition  is  the  same  in  every  member  of  architect- 
ure ; and  its  importance  can  hardly  be  understood,  unless  we 
take  the  pains  to  trace  it  in  the  universality,  of  which  illustra- 
tions, irrelevant  to  our  present  purpose,  will  be  found  in  the 
third  Chapter.  I pursue  here  the  question  of  truth,  relating 
to  the  treatment  of  the  mouldings. 

XXIV.  The  reader  will  observe  that,  up  to  the  last  expan- 
sion of  the  penetrations,  the  stone- work  was  necessarily  consid- 
ered, as  it  actually  is,  stiff,  and  unyielding.  It  was  so,  also, 
during  the  pause  of  which  I have  spoken,  when  the  forms  of 
the  tracery  were  still  severe  and  pure ; delicate  indeed,  but 
perfectly  firm. 

At  the  close  of  the  period  of  pause,  the  first  sign  of  serious 
change  was  like  a low  breeze,  passing  through  the  emaciated 
tracery,  and  making  it  tremble.  It  began  to  undulate  like  the 
threads  of  a cobweb  lifted  by  the  wind.  It  lost  its  essence  as 
a structure  of  stone.  lieduced  to  the  slenderness  of  threads, 
it  began  to  be  considered  as  possessing  also  their  flexibility. 
The  architect  was  pleased  with  this  his  new  fancy,  and  set  him- 
self to  carry  it  out ; and  in  a little  time,  the  bars  of  tracery 
were  caused  to  appear  to  the  eye  as  if  they  had  been  woven 
together  like  a net.  This  was  a change  which  sacrificed  a 
great  principle  of  truth ; it  sacrificed  the  expression  of  the 
qualities  of  the  material ; and,  however  delightful  its  results 
in  their  first  developments,  it  was  ultimately  ruinous. 

For,  observe  the  difference  between  the  supposition  of  duc- 
tility, and  that  of  elastic  structure  noticed  above  in  the  resem- 
blance to  tree  form.  That  resemblance  was  not  sought,  but 
necessary  ; it  resulted  from  the  natural  conditions  of  strength 


64 


THE  LAMP  OF  TRUTH. 


in  the  pier  or  trunk,  and  slenderness  in  the  ribs  or  branches, 
while  many  of  the  other  suggested  conditions  of  resemblance 
were  perfectly  true.  A tree  branch,  though  in  a certain  sense 
flexible,  is  not  ductile  ; it  is  as  firm  in  its  own  form  as  the  rib 
of  stone  ; both  of  them  will  yield  up  to  certain  limits,  both  of 
them  breaking  when  those  limits  are  exceeded  ; while  the  tree 
trunk  will  bend  no  more  than  the  stone  pillar.  But  when  the 
tracery  is  assumed  to  be  as  yielding  as  a silken  cord  ; when 
the  whole  fragility,  elasticity,  and  weight  of  the  material  are 
to  the  eye,  if  not  in  terms,  denied  ; when  all  the  art  of  the 
architect  is  applied  to  disprove  the  first  conditions  of  his  work- 
ing, and  the  first  attributes  of  his  materials  ; this  is  a deliber- 
ate treachery,  only  redeemed  from  the  charge  of  direct  false- 
hood by  the  visibility  of  the  stone  surface,  and  degrading  all 
the  traceries  it  affects  exactly  in  the  degree  of  its  presence. 

XXV.  But  the  declining  and  morbid  taste  of  the  later  ar- 
chitects, was  not  satisfied  with  thus  much  deception.  They 
were  delighted  with  the  subtle  charm  they  had  created,  and 
thought  only  of  increasing  its  power.  The  next  step  was  to 
consider  and  represent  the  tracery,  as  not  only  ductile,  but 
penetrable ; and  when  two  mouldings  met  each  other,  to 
manage  their  intersection,  so  that  one  should  appear  to  pass 
through  the  other,  retaining  its  independence  ; or  when  two 
ran  parallel  to  each  other,  to  represent  the  one  as  partly  con- 
tained within  the  other,  and  partly  apparent  above  it.  This 
form  of  falsity  was  that  which  crushed  the  art.  The  flexible 
traceries  were  often  beautiful,  though  they  were  ignoble  ; but 
the  penetrated  traceries,  rendered,  as  they  finally  were,  merely 
the  means  of  exhibiting  the  dexterity  of  the  stone-cutter,  an- 
nihilated both  the  beauty  and  dignity  of  the  Gothic  types. 
A system  so  momentous  in  its  consequences  deserves  some 
detailed  examination. 

XXVI.  In  the  drawing  of  the  shafts  of  the  door  at  Lisieux, 
under  the  spandril,  in  Plate  VII.,  the  reader  will  see  the  mode 
of  managing  the  intersection  of  similar  mouldings,  which  was 
universal  in  the  great  periods.  They  melted  into  each  other, 
and  became  one  at  the  point  of  crossing,  or  of  contact ; and 
even  the  suggestion  of  so  sharp  intersection  as  this  of  Lisieux 


THE  LAMP  OF  TRUTH. 


65 


is  usually  avoided  (this  design  being,  of  course,  only  a pointed 
form  of  the  earlier  Norman  arcade,  in  which  the  arches  are 
interlaced,  and  lie  each  over  the  preceding,  and  under  the  fol- 
lowing, one,  as  in  Anselm’s  tower  at  Canterbury),  since,  in  the 
plurality  of  designs,  when  mouldings  meet  each  other,  they 
coincide  through  some  considerable  portion  of  their  curves, 
meeting  by  contact,  rather  than  by  intersection ; and  at  the 
point  of  coincidence  the  section  of  each  separate  moulding 
becomes  common  to  the  two  thus  melted  into  each  other. 
Thus,  in  the  junction  of  the  circles  of  the  window  of  the  Pa- 
lazzo Foscari,  Plate  VIII.,  given  accurately  in  fig.  8,  Plate  IV., 
the  section  across  the  line  s,  is  exactly  the  same  as  that  across 
any  break  of  the  separated  moulding  above,  as  $.  It  some- 
times, however,  happens,  that  two  different  mouldings  meet 
each  other.  This  was  seldom  permitted  in  the  great  periods, 
and,  when  it  took  place,  was  most  awkwardly  managed.  Fig. 
1,  Plate  IV.  gives  the  junction  of  the  mouldings  of  the  gable 
and  vertical,  in  the  window  of  the  spire  of  Salisbury.  That 
of  the  gable  is  composed  of  a single,  and  that  of  the  vertical 
of  a double  cavetto,  decorated  with  ball-flowers  ; and  the 
larger  single  moulding  swallows  up  one  of  the  double  ones, 
and  pushes  forward  among  the  smaller  balls  with  the  most 
blundering  and  clumsy  simplicity.  In  comparing  the  sections 
it  is  to  be  observed  that,  in  the  upper  one,  the  line  a b repre- 
sents an  actual  vertical  in  the  plane  of  the  window  ; while,  in 
the  lower  one,  the  line  e d represents  the  horizontal,  in  the 
plane  of  the  window,  indicated  by  the  perspective  line  d e. 

XXVII.  The  very  awkwardness  with  which  such  occur- 
rences of  difficulty  are  met  by  the  earlier  builder,  marks  his 
dislike  of  the  system,  and  unwillingness  to  attract  the  eye  to 
such  arrangements.  There  is  another  very  clumsy  one,  in  the 
junction  of  the  upper  and  sub-arches  of  the  triforium  of 
Salisbury  ; but  it  is  kept  in  the  shade,  and  all  the  prominent 
junctions  are  of  mouldings  like  each  other,  and  managed  with 
perfect  simplicity.  But  so  soon  as  the  attention  of  the  builders 
became,  as  we  have  just  seen,  fixed  upon  the  lines  of  mouldings 
instead  of  the  enclosed  spaces,  those  lines  began  to  preserve  an 
independent  existence  wherever  they  met ; and  different  mould* 
5 


66 


THE  LAMP  OF  TRUTH. 


ings  were  studiously  associated,  in  order  to  obtain  variety  of 
iutersectional  line.  We  must,  however,  do  the  late  builders 
the  justice  to  note  that,  in  one  case,  the  habit  grew  out  of  a 
feeling  of  proportion,  more  refined  than  that  of  earlier  work- 
men. It  shows  itself  first  in  the  bases  of  divided  pillars,  or 
arch  mouldings,  whose  smaller  shafts  had  originally  bases 
formed  by  the  continued  base  of  the  central,  or  other  larger, 
columns  with  which  they  were  grouped ; but  it  being  felt,  when 
the  eye  of  the  architect  became  fastidious,  that  the  dimension 
of  moulding  which  was  right  for  the  base  of  a large  shaft,  was 
wrong  for  that  of  a small  one,  each  shaft  had  an  independent 
base  ; at  first,  those  of  the  smaller  died  simply  down  on  that 
of  the  larger ; but  when  the  vertical  sections  of  both  became 
complicated,  the  bases  of  the  smaller  shafts  were  considered  to 
exist  within  those  of  the  larger,  and  the  places  of  their  emer- 
gence, on  this  supposition,  were  calculated  with  the  utmost 
nicety,  and  cut  with  singular  precision  ; so  that  an  elaborate 
late  base  of  a divided  column,  as,  for  instance,  of  those  in  the 
nave  of  Abbeville,  looks  exactly  as  if  its  smaller  shafts  had  all 
been  finished  to  the  ground  first,  each  with  its  complete  and 
intricate  base,  and  then  the  comprehending  base  of  the  central 
pier  had  been  moulded  over  them  in  clay,  leaving  their  points 
and  angles  sticking  out  here  and  there,  like  the  edges  of  sharp 
crystals  out  of  a nodule  of  earth.  The  exhibition  of  technical 
dexterity  in  work  of  this  kind  is  often  marvellous,  the  strangest 
possible  shapes  of  sections  being  calculated  to  a hair’s-breadth, 
and  the  occurrence  of  the  under  and  emergent  forms  being 
rendered,  even  in  places  where  they  are  so  slight  that  they  can 
hardly  be  detected  but  by  the  touch.  It  is  impossible  to  ren- 
der a very  elaborate  example  of  this  kind  intelligible,  without 
some  fifty  measured  sections ; but  fig.  6,  Plate  IV.  is  a very  in- 
teresting and  simple  one,  from  the  west  gate  of  Bouen.  It  is 
part  of  the  base  of  one  of  the  narrow  piers  between  its  princi- 
pal niches.  The  square  column  k,  having  a base  with  the  pro- 
file p r,  is  supposed  to  contain  within  itself  another  similar 
one,  set  diagonally,  and  lifted  so  far  above  the  inclosing  one, 
as  that  the  recessed  part  of  its  profile  p r shall  fall  behind  the 
projecting  part  of  the  outer  one.  The  angle  of  its  upper  por* 


PLATE  IV.— (Page  66-Vol.  V.) 
Interactional  Mouldings. 


THE  LAMP  OF  TRUTH. \ 


67 


tion  exactly  meets  the  plane  of  the  side  of  the  upper  inclosing 
shaft  4,  and  would,  therefore,  not  be  seen,  unless  two  vertical 
cuts  were  made  to  exhibit  it,  which  form  two  dark  lines  the 
whole  way  up  the  shaft.  Two  small  pilasters  are  run,  like 
fastening  stitches,  through  the  junction  on  the  front  of  the 
shafts.  The  sections  k n taken  respectively  at  the  levels  k , n3 
will  explain  the  hypothetical  construction  of  the  whole.  Fig0 
7 is  a base,  or  joint  rather  (for  passages  of  this  form  occur 
again  and  again,  on  the  shafts  of  flamboyant  work),  of  one  of 
the  smallest  piers  of  the  pedestals  which  support  the  lost  stat- 
ues of  the  porch  ; its  section  below  would  be  the  same  as  7i, 
and  its  construction,  after  what  has  been  said  of  the  either 
base,  will  be  at  once  perceived. 

XXVIII.  There  was,  however,  in  this  kind  of  involution, 
much  to  be  admired  as  well  as  reprehended,  the  proportions 
of  quantities  were  always  as  beautiful  as  they  were  intricate  ; 
and,  though  the  lines  of  intersection  were  harsh,  they  were 
exquisitely  opposed  to  the  flower-work  of  the  interposing 
mouldings.  But  the  fancy  did  not  stop  here  ; it  rose  from 
the  bases  into  the  arches  ; and  there,  not  finding  room  enough 
for  its  exhibition,  it  withdrew  the  capitals  from  the  heads 
even  of  cylindrical  shafts,  (we  cannot  but  admire,  while  we 
regret,  the  boldness  of  the  men  who  could  defy  the  authority 
and  custom  of  all  the  nations  of  the  earth  for  a space  of  some 
three  thousand  years,)  in  order  that  the  arch  mouldings  might 
appear  to  emerge  from  the  pillar,  as  at  its  base  they  had  been 
lost  in  it,  and  not  to  terminate  on  the  abacus  of  the  capital ; 
then  they  ran  the  mouldings  across  and  through  each  other, 
at  the  point  of  the  arch  ; and  finally,  not  finding  their  natural 
directions  enough  to  furnish  as  many  occasions  of  intersection 
as  they  wished,  bent  them  hither  and  thither,  and  cut  off  their 
ends  short,  when  they  had  passed  the  point  of  intersection. 
Fig.  2,  Plate  IV.  is  part  of  a flying  buttress  from  the  apse  of 
St.  Gervais  at  Falaise,  in  which  the  moulding  whose  section 
is  rudely  given  above  at/,  (taken  vertically  through  the  point 
/')  is  carried  thrice  through  itself,  in  the  cross-bar  and  two 
arches  ; and  the  flat  fillet  is  cut  off  sharp  at  the  end  of  the 
cross-bar,  for  the  mere  pleasure  of  the  truncation  Fig.  3 i* 


63 


TEE  LAMP  OF  TRUTH. 


half  of  the  head  of  a door  in  the  Stadthaus  of  Sursee,  in  which 
the  shaded  part  of  the  section  of  the  joint  g g,  is  that  of  the 
arch-moulding,  which  is  three  times  reduplicated,  and  six 
times  intersected  by  itself,  the  ends  being  cut  off  when  they 
become  unmanageable.  This  style  is,  indeed,  earlier  exag- 
gerated in  Switzerland  and  Germany,  owing  to  the  imitation 
in  stone  of  the  dovetailing  of  wood,  particularly  of  the  inter- 
secting of  beams  at  the  angles  of  chalets  ; but  it  only  furnishes 
the  more  plain  instance  of  the  danger  of  the  fallacious  system 
which,  from  the  beginning,  repressed  the  German,  and,  in 
the  end,  ruined  the  French  Gothic.  It  would  be  too  painful 
a task  to  follow  further  the  caricatures  of  form,  and  eccen- 
tricities of  treatment,  which  grow  out  of  this  singular  abuse 
— the  flattened  arch,  the  shrunken  pillar,  the  lifeless  orna- 
ment, the  liny  moulding,  the  distorted  and  extravagant  folia- 
tion, until  the  time  came  when,  over  these  wrecks  and  rem- 
nants, deprived  of  all  unity  and  principle,  rose  the  foul  torrent 
of  the  renaissance,  and  swept  them  all  away.  So  fell  the  great 
dynasty  of  mediaeval  architecture.  It  was  because  it  had  lost 
its  own  strength,  and  disobeyed  its  own  laws — because  its  order, 
and  consistency,  and  organization,  had  been  broken  through 
— that  it  could  oppose  no  resistance  to  the  rush  of  overwhelm- 
ing innovation.  And  this,  observe,  all  because  it  had  sacri- 
ficed a single  truth.  From  that  one  surrender  of  its  integrity, 
from  that  one  endeavor  to  assume  the  semblance  of  what  it 
was  not,  arose  the  multitudinous  forms  of  disease  and  decrep- 
itude, which  rotted  away  the  pillars  of  its  supremacy.  It  was 
not  because  its  time  was  come ; it  was  not  because  it  was 
scorned  by  the  classical  Romanist,  or  dreaded  by  the  faithful 
Protestant.  That  scorn  and  that  fear  it  might  have  survived, 
and  lived  ; it  would  have  stood  forth  in  stern  comparison  with 
the  enervated  sensuality  of  the  renaissance  ; it  would  have 
risen  in  renewed  and  purified  honor,  and  with  a new  soul, 
from  the  ashes  into  which  it  sank,  giving  up  its  glory,  as  it 
had  received  it,  for  the  honor  of  God — but  its  own  truth  was 
gone,  and  it  sank  forever.  There  was  no  wisdom  nor  strength 
left  in  it,  to  raise  it  from  the  dust ; and  the  error  of  zeal,  and 
the  softness  of  luxury  smote  it  down  and  dissolved  it  away 


THE  LAMP  OF  POWER. 


69 


It  is  good  for  us  to  remember  this,  as  we  tread  upon  the 
bare  ground  of  its  foundations,  and  stumble  over  its  scattered 
stones.  Those  rent  skeletons  of  pierced  wall,  through  which 
our  sea-winds  moan  and  murmur,  strewing  them  joint  by 
joint,  and  bone  by  bone,  along  the  bleak  promontories  on 
which  the  Pharos  lights  came  once  from  houses  of  prayer— 
those  grey  arches  and  quiet  isles  under  which  the  sheep  of 
our  valleys  feed  and  rest  on  the  turf  that  has  buried  their 
altars — those  shapeless  heaps,  that  are  not  of  the  Earth,  which 
lift  our  fields  into  strange  and  sudden  banks  of  flowers,  and 
stay  our  mountain  streams  with  stones  that  are  not  their  own, 
have  other  thoughts  to  ask  from  us  than  those  of  mourning 
for  the  rage  that  despoiled,  or  the  fear  that  forsook  them.  It 
was  not  the  robber,  not  the  fanatic,  not  the  Tflasphemer,  who 
sealed  the  destruction  that  they  had  wrought ; the  war,  the 
wrath,  the  terror,  might  have  worked  their  worst,  and  the 
strong  walls  would  have  risen,  and  the  slight  pillars  would 
have  started  again,  from  under  the  hand  of  the  destroyer. 
But  they  could  not  rise  out  of  the  ruins  of  their  own  violated 
truth. 


CHAPTER  HI. 

THE  LAMP  OF  POWER. 

I.  • In  recalling  the  impressions  we  have  received  from  the 
works  of  man,  after  a lapse  of  time  long  enough  to  involve  in 
obscurity  all  but  the  most  vivid,  it  often  happens  that  we  find 
a strange  pre-eminence  and  durability  in  many  upon  whose 
strength  we  had  little  calculated,  and  that  points  of  character 
which  had  escaped  the  detection  of  the  judgment,  become  de- 
veloped under  the  waste  of  memory  ; as  veins  of  harder  rock, 
whose  places  could  not  at  first  have  been  discovered  by  the 
eye,  are  left  salient  under  the  action  of  frosts  and  streams. 
The  traveller  who  desires  to  correct  the  errors  of  his  judg- 
ment, necessitated  by  inequalities  of  temper,  infelicities  of 
circumstance,  and  accidents  of  association,  has  no  other  re- 
source than  to  wait  for  the  calm  verdict  of  interposing  years  ; 
and  to  watch  for  the  new  arrangements  of  eminence  and  shape 


ro 


TEE  LAMP  OF  POWER. 


in  tlie  images  which  remain  latest  in  his  memory  ; as  in  the 
ebbing  of  a mountain  lake,  he  would  watch  the  varying  out- 
lines of  its  successive  shore,  and  trace,  in  the  form  of  its  de- 
parting waters,  the  true  direction  of  the  forces  which  had 
cleft,  or  the  currents  which  had  excavated,  the  deepest  re- 
cesses of  its  primal  bed. 

In  thus  reverting  to  the  memories  of  those  works  of  archi- 
tecture by  which  we  have  been  most  pleasurably  impressed,  it 
will  generally  happen  that  they  fall  into  two  broad  classes : 
the  one  characterized  by  an  exceeding  preciousness  and  deli- 
cacy, to  which  we  recur  with  a sense  of  affectionate  admira- 
tion ; and  the  other  by  a severe,  and,  in  many  cases,  myste- 
rious, majesty,  which  we  remember  with  an  undiminished 
awe,  like  that  felt  at  the  presence  and  operation  of  some  great 
Spiritual  Power.  From  about  these  two  groups,  more  or  less 
harmonised  by  intermediate  examples,  but  always  distinc- 
tively marked  by  features  of  beauty  or  of  power,  there  will  be 
swept  away,  in  multitudes,  the  memories  of  buildings,  per- 
haps, in  their  first  address  to  our  minds,  of  no  inferior  pre- 
tension, but  owing  their  impressiveness  to  characters  of  less 
enduring  nobility — to  value  of  material,  accumulation  of  or- 
nament, or  ingenuity  of  mechanical  construction.  Especial 
interest  may,  indeed,  have  been  awakened  by  such  circum- 
stances, and  the  memory  may  have  been,  consequently,  ren- 
dered tenacious  of  particular  parts  or  effects  of  the  structure ; 
but  it  will  recall  even  these  only  by  an  active  effort,  and  then 
without  emotion  ; while  in  passive  moments,  and  with  thrill- 
ing influence,  the  image  of  purer  beauty,  and  of  more  spirit- 
ual power,  will  return  in  a fan*  and  solemn  company ; and 
while  the  piide  of  many  a stately  palace,  and  the  wealth  of 
many  a jewelled  shrine,  perish  from  our  thoughts  in  a dust  of 
gold,  there  will  rise,  through  their  dimness,  the  white  image 
of  some  secluded  marble  chapel,  by  river  or  forest  side,  with 
the  fretted  flower-work  shrinking  under  its  arches,  as  if  under 
vaults  of  Late-fallen  snow  ; or  the  vast  weariness  of  some  shad- 
owy wall  whose  separate  stones  are  like  mountain  foundations, 
and  yet  numberless. 

H Now,  the  difference  between  these  two  orders  of  build- 


THE  LAMP  OF  POWER. 


71 


ing  is  not  merely  that  which  there  is  in  nature  between  things 
beautiful  and  sublime.  It  is,  also,  the  difference  between 
what  is  derivative  and  original  in  man’s  work  ; for  whatever 
is  in  architecture  fair  or  beautiful,  is  imitated  from  natural 
forms ; and  what  is  not  so  derived,  but  depends  for  its  dig- 
nity upon  arrangement  and  government  received  from  human 
mind,  becomes  the  expression  of  the  power  of  that  mind,  and 
receives  a sublimity  high  in  proportion  to  the  power  ex- 
pressed. All  building,  therefore,  shows  man  either  as  gather- 
ing or  governing : and  the  secrets  of  his  success  are  his 
knowing  what  to  gather,  and  how  to  rale.  These  are  the  two 
great  intellectual  Lamps  of  Architecture ; the  one  consisting 
in  a just  and  humble  veneration  for  the  works  of  God  upon 
the  earth,  and  the  other  in  an  understanding  of  the  dominion 
over  those  works  which  has  been  vested  in  man. 

ILL  Besides  this  expression  of  living  authority  and  power, 
there  is,  however,  a sympathy  in  the  forms  of  noble  building, 
with  what  is  most  sublime  in  natural  things ; and  it  is  the 
governing  Power  directed  by  this  sympathy,  whose  operation 
I shall  at  present  endeavor  to  trace,  abandoning  all  inquiry 
into  the  more  abstract  fields  of  invention  : for  this  latter 
faculty,  and  the  questions  of  proportion  and  arrangement 
connected  with  its  discussion,  can  only  be  rightly  examined 
in  a general  view  of  all  arts ; but  its  sympathy,  in  architecture, 
with  the  vast  controlling  powers  of  Nature  herself,  is  special, 
and  may  shortly  be  considered ; and  that  with  the  more  ad- 
vantage, that  it  has,  of  late,  been  little  felt  or  regarded  by 
architects.  I have  seen,  in  recent  efforts,  much  contest  between 
two  schools,  one  affecting  originality,  and  the  other  legality — 
many  attempts  at  beauty  of  design — many  ingenious  adapta- 
tions of  construction  ; but  I have  never  seen  any  aim  at  the 
expression  of  abstract  power  ; never  any  appearance  of  a con- 
sciousness that,  in  this  primal  art  of  man,  there  is  room  for 
the  marking  of  his  relations  with  the  mightiest,  as  well  as  the 
fairest,  works  of  God ; and  that  those  works  themselves  have 
been  permitted,  by  their  Master  and  his,  to  receive  an  added 
glory  from  their  association  with  earnest  efforts  of  human 
thought  In  the  edifices  of  Man  there  should  be  found  rever- 


72 


THE  LAMP  OF  POWER . 


ent  worship  and  following,  not  only  of  the  spirit  which  rounds 
the  pillars  of  the  forest,  and  arches  the  vault  of  the  avenue — 
which  gives  veining  to  the  leaf,  and  polish  to  the  shell,  and 
grace  to  every  pulse  that  agitates  animal  organization, — hut 
of  that  also  which  reproves  the  pillars  of  the  earth,  and  builds 
up  her  barren  precipices  into  the  coldness  of  the  clouds,  and 
lifts  her  shadowy  cones  of  mountain  purple  into  the  pale  arch 
of  the  sky  ; for  these,  and  other  glories  more  than  these,  re- 
fuse not  to  connect  themselves,  in  his  thoughts,  with  the  work 
of  his  own  hand  ; the  grey  cliff  loses  not  its  nobleness  when  it 
reminds  us  of  some  Cyclopean  waste  of  mural  stone  ; the  pin- 
nacles of  the  rocky  promontory  arrange  themselves,  unde- 
graded, into  fantastic  semblances  of  fortress  towers  ; and  even 
the  awful  cone  of  the  far-off  mountain  has  a melancholy  mixed 
with  that  of  its  own  solitude,  which  is  cast  from  the  images  of 
nameless  tumuli  on  white  sea-shores,  and  of  the  heaps  of  reedy 
clay,  into  which  chambered  cities  melt  in  their  mortality. 

IV.  Let  us,  then,  see  what  is  this  power  and  majesty,  which 
Nature  herself  does  not  disdain  to  accept  from  the  works  of 
man  ; and  what  that  sublimity  in  the  masses  built  up  by  his 
coralline-like  energy,  which  is  honorable,  even  when  trans- 
ferred by  association  to  the  dateless  hills,  wyhich  it  needed 
earthquakes  to  lift,  and  deluges  to  mould. 

And,  first  of  mere  size  : It  might  not  be  thought  possible 
to  emulate  the  sublimity  of  natural  objects  in  this  respect ; nor 
would  it  be,  if  the  architect  contended  with  them  in  pitched 
battle.  It  would  not  be  well  to  build  pyramids  in  the  valley 
of  Chamouni  ; and  St.  Peter’s,  among  its  many  other  errors, 
counts  for  not  the  least  injurious  its  position  on  the  slope  of 
an  inconsiderable  hill.  But  imagine  it  placed  on  the  plain  of 
Marengo,  or,  like  the  Superga  of  Turin,  or  like  La  Salute  at 
Venice  ! The  fact  is,  that  the  apprehension  of  the  size  of  na- 
tural objects,  as  well  as  of  architecture,  depends  more  on  for- 
tunate excitement  of  the  imagination  than  on  measurements 
by  the  eye  ; and  the  architect  has  a peculiar  advantage  in  being 
able  to  press  close  upon  the  sight,  such  magnitude  as  he  can 
command.  There  are  few  rocks,  even  among  the  Alps,  that 
have  a clear  vertical  fall  as  high  as  the  choir  of  Beauvais ; and 


THE  LAMP  OF  PO  WER. 


if  we  secure  a good  precipice  of  wall,  or  a sheer  and  unbroken 
flank  of  tower,  and  place  them  where  there  are  no  enormous 
natural  features  to  oppose  them,  we  shall  feel  in  them  no  want 
of  sublimity  of  size.  And  it  may  be  matter  of  encouragement 
in  this  respect,  though  one  also  of  regret,  to  observe  how  much 
oftener  man  destroys  natural  sublimity,  than  nature  crushes 
human  power.  It  does  not  need  much  to  humiliate  a moun- 
tain. A hut  will  sometimes  do  it ; I never  look  up  to  the  Col 
de  Balme  from  Chamouni,  without  a violent  feeling  of  provo- 
cation against  its  hospitable  little  cabin,  whose  bright  white 
walls  form  a visibly  four-square  spot  on  the  green  ridge,  and 
entirely  destroy  all  idea  of  its  elevation.  A single  villa  will 
often  mar  a whole  landscape,  and  dethrone  a dynasty  of  hills, 
and  the  Acropolis  of  Athens,  Parthenon  and  all,  has,  I believe, 
been  dwarfed  into  a model  by  the  palace  lately  built  beneath 
it.  The  fact  is,  that  hills  are  not  so  high  as  we  fancy  them, 
and,  when  to  the  actual  impression  of  no  mean  comparative 
size,  is  added  the  sense  of  the  toil  of  manly  hand  and  thought, 
a sublimity  is  reached,  which  nothing  but  gross  error  in  ar- 
rangement of  its  parts  can  destroy. 

Y.  While,  therefore,  it  is  not  to  be  supposed  that  mere  size 
will  ennoble  a mean  design,  yet  every  increase  of  magnitude 
will  bestow  upon  it  a certain  degree  of  nobleness  : so  that  it 
is  well  to  determine  at  first,  whether  the  building  is  to  be 
markedly  beautiful  or  markedly  sublime  ; and  if  the  latter, 
not  to  be  withheld  by  respect  to  smaller  parts  from  reaching 
largeness  of  scale  ; provided  only,  that  it  be  evidently  in  the 
architect’s  power  to  reach  at  least  that  degree  of  magnitude 
which  is  the  lowest  at  which  sublimity  begins,  rudely  definable 
as  that  which  will  make  a living  figure  look  less  than  life  be- 
side it.  It  is  the  misfortune  of  most  of  our  modern  buildings 
that  we  would  fain  have  an  universal  excellence  in  them  ; and 
so  part  of  the  funds  must  go  in  painting,  part  in  gilding,  part 
in  fitting  up,  part  in  painted  windows,  part  in  small  steeples, 
part  in  ornaments  here  and  there  ; and  neither  the  windows, 
nor  the  steeple,  nor  the  ornaments,  are  worth  their  materials. 
For  there  is  a crust  about  the  impressible  part  of  men’s  minds, 
which  must  be  pierced  through  before  they  can  be  touched 


74 


THE  LAMP  OF  POWER 


to  the  quick  ; and  though  we  may  prick  at  it  and  scratch  it 
in  a thousand  separate  places,  we  might  as  well  have  let  it 
alone  if  we  do  not  come  through  somewhere  with  a deep 
thrust : and  if  we  can  give  such  a thrust  anywhere,  there  is 
no  need  of  another  ; it  need  not  be  even  so  “ wide  as  a church 
door,”  so  that  it  be  enough.  And  mere  weight  will  do  this  j 
it  is  a clumsy  way  of  doing  it,  but  an  effectual  one,  too  ; and 
the  apathy  which  cannot  be  pierced  through  by  a small  steeple, 
nor  shone  through  by  a small  window,  can  be  broken  through 
in  a moment  by  the  mere  weight  of  a great  wall.  Let,  there- 
fore,  the  architect  who  has  not  large  resources,  choose  his 
point  of  attack  first,  and,  if  he  choose  size,  let  him  abandon 
decoration  ; for,  unless  they  are  concentrated,  and  numerous 
enough  to  make  their  concentration  conspicuous,  all  his  orna- 
ments together  would  not  be  worth  one  huge  stone.  And  the 
choice  must  be  a decided  one,  without  compromise.  It  must 
be  no  question  whether  his  capitals  would  not  look  better  with 
a little  carving — let  him  leave  them  huge  as  blocks  ; or  whether 
his  arches  should  not  have  richer  architraves — let  him  throw 
them  a foot  higher,  if  he  can  ; a yard  more  across  the  nave 
will  be  worth  more  to  him  than  a tesselated  pavement ; and 
another  fathom  of  outer  wall,  than  an  army  of  pinnacles.  The 
limitation  of  size  must  be  only  in  the  uses  of  the  building,  or 
in  the  ground  at  his  disposal. 

VI.  That  limitation,  however,  being  by  such  circumstances 
determined,  by  what  means,  it  is  to  be  next  asked,  may  the 
actual  magnitude  be  best  displayed  ; since  it  is  seldom,  per- 
haps never,  that  a building  of  any  pretension  to  size  looks  so 
large  as  it  is.  The  appearance  of  a figure  in  any  distant,  more 
especially  in  any  upper,  parts  of  it  will  almost  always  prove 
that  we  have  under-estimated  the  magnitude  of  those  parts. 

It  has  often  been  observed  that  a building,  in  order  to  show 
its  magnitude,  must  be  seen  all  at  once.  It  would,  perhaps, 
be  better  to  say,  must  be  bounded  as  much  as  possible  by 
continuous  lines,  and  that  its  extreme  points  should  be  seen 
all  at  once  ; or  we  may  state,  in  simpler  terms  still,  that  it 
must  have  one  visible  bounding  line  from  top  to  bottom,  and 
from  end  to  end.  This  bounding  line  from  top  to  bottom  may 


THE  LAMP  OF  POWER. 


75 


either  be  inclined  inwards,  and  the  mass,  therefore,  pyrami- 
dical ; or  vertical,  and  the  mass  form  one  grand  cliff ; or  in- 
clined outwards,  as  in  the  advancing  fronts  of  old  houses,  and, 
in  a sort,  in  the  Greek  temple,  and  in  all  buildings  with  heavy 
cornices  or  heads.  Now,  in  all  these  cases,  if  the  bounding 
line  be  violently  broken  ; if  the  cornice  project,  or  the  upper 
portion  of  the  pyramid  recede,  too  violently,  majesty  will  be 
lost ; not  because  the  building  cannot  be  seen  all  at  once,— 
for  in  the  case  of  a heavy  cornice  no  part  of  it  is  necessarily 
concealed — but  because  the  continuity  of  its  terminal  line  is 
broken,  and  the  length  of  that  line , therefore,  cannot  be  esti- 
mated. But  the  error  is,  of  course,  more  fatal  when  much  of 
the  building  is  also  concealed ; as  in  the  well-known  case  of 
the  recession  of  the  dome  of  St.  Peter’s,  and,  from  the  greater 
number  of  points  of  view,  in  churches  whose  highest  portions, 
whether  dome  or  tower,  are  over  their  cross.  Thus  there  is 
only  one  point  from  which  the  size  of  the  Cathedral  of  Florence 
is  felt ; and  that  is  from  the  corner  of  the  Via  de’  Balestrieri, 
opposite  the  south-east  angle,  where  it  happens  that  the  dome 
is  seen  rising  instantly  above  the  apse  and  transepts.  In  all 
cases  in  which  the  tower  is  over  the  cross,  the  grandeur  and 
height  of  the  tower  itself  are  lost,  because  there  is  but  one  line 
down  which  the  eye  can  trace  the  whole  height,  and  that  is  in 
the  inner  angle  of  the  cross,  not  easily  discerned.  Hence, 
while,  in  symmetry  and  feeling,  such  designs  may  often  have 
pre-eminence,  yet,  where  the  height  of  the  tower  itself  is  to 
be  made  apparent,  it  must  be  at  the  west  end,  or  better  still, 
detached  as  a campanile.  Imagine  the  loss  to  the  Lombard 
churches  if  their  campaniles  were  carried  only  to  their  present 
height  over  their  crosses  ; or  to  the  Cathedral  of  Rouen,  if  the 
Tour  de  Beurre  were  made  central,  in  the  place  of  its  present 
debased  spire  ! 

VII.  Whether,  therefore,  we  have  to  do  with  tower  or  wall, 
there  must  be  one  bounding  line  from  base  to  coping  ; and  I 
am  much  inclined,  myself,  to  love  the  true  vertical,  or  the 
vertical,  with  a solemn  frown  of  projection  (not  a scowl),  as 
in  the  Palazzo  Vecchio  of  Florence.  This  character  is  always 
given  to  rocks  by  the  poets ; with  slight  foundation  indeed 


7(5 


THE  LAMP  OF  POWER. 


real  rocks  being  little  given  to  overhanging — but  with  excel, 
lent  judgment ; for  the  sense  of  threatening  conveyed  by  this 
form  is  a nobler  character  than  that  of  mere  size.  And,  in 
buildings,  this  threatening  should  be  somewhat  carried  down 
into  their  mass.  A mere  projecting  shelf  is  not  enough,  the 
whole  wall  must,  Jupiter  like,  nod  as  well  as  frown.  Hence, 
I think  the  propped  machicolations  of  the  Palazzo  Vecchio 
and  Duomo  of  Florence  far  grander  headings  than  any  form 
of  Greek  cornice.  Sometimes  the  projection  may  be  thrown 
lower,  as  in  the  Doge’s  palace  of  Venice,  where  the  chief  ap- 
pearance of  it  is  above  the  second  arcade  ; or  it  may  become 
a grand  swell  from  the  ground,  as  the  head  of  a ship  of  the 
line  rises  from  the  sea.  This  is  very  nobly  attained  by  the 
projection  of  the  niches  in  the  third  story  of  the  Tour  de 
Beurre  at  Bouen. 

VTTT.  What  is  needful  in  the  setting  forth  of  magnitude  in 
height,  is  right  also  in  the  marking  it  in  area — let  it  be  gath- 
ered well  together.  It  is  especially  to  be  noted  with  respect 
to  the  Palazzo  Vecchio  and  other  mighty  buildings  of  its 
order,  how  mistakenly  it  has  been  stated  that  dimension,  in 
order  to  become  impressive,  should  be  expanded  either  in 
height  or  length,  but  not  equally : whereas,  rather  it  will  be 
found  that  those  buildings  seem  on  the  whole  the  vastest 
which  have  been  gathered  up  into  a mighty  square,  and  which 
look  as  if  they  had  been  measured  by  the  angel’s  rod,  “ the 
length,  and  the  breadth,  and  the  height  of  it  are  equal,”  and 
herein  something  is  to  be  taken  notice  of,  which  I believe 
not  to  be  sufficiently,  if  at  all,  considered  among  our  archi- 
tects. 

Of  the  many  broad  divisions  under  which  architecture  may 
be  considered,  none  appear  to  me  more  significant  than  that 
into  buildings  whose  interest  is  in  their  walls,  and  those 
whose  interest  is  in  the  lines  dividing  their  walls.  In  the 
Greek  temple  the  wall  is  as  nothing  ; the  entire  interest  is  in 
the  detached  columns  and  the  frieze  they  bear ; in  French 
Flamboyant,  and  in  our  detestable  Perpendicular,  the  object 
is  to  get  rid  of  the  wall  surface,  and  keep  the  eye  altogether 
on  tracery  of  line  ; in  Romanesque  work  and  Egyptian,  the 


THE  LAMP  OF  POWER. 


77 


wall  is  a confessed  and  honored  member,  and  the  light  is 
often  allowed  to  fall  on  large  areas  of  it,  variously  decorated. 
Now,  both  these  principles  are  admitted  by  Nature,  the  one 
in  her  woods  and  thickets,  the  other  in  her  plains,  and  cliffs, 
and  waters ; but  the  latter  is  pre-eminently  the  principle  of 
power,  and,  in  some  sense,  of  beauty  also.  For,  whatever  in- 
finity of  fair  form  there  may  be  in  the  maze  of  the  forest, 
there  is  a fairer,  as  I think,  in  the  surface  of  the  quiet  lake  ; 
and  I hardly  know  that  association  of  shaft  or  tracery,  for 
which  I would  exchange  the  warm  sleep  of  sunshine  on  some 
smooth,  broad,  human-like  front  of  marble.  Nevertheless,  if 
breadth  is  to  be  beautiful,  its  substance  must  in  some  sort  be 
beautiful ; and  we  must  not  hastily  condemn  the  exclusive 
resting  of  the  northern  architects  in  divided  lines,  until  at 
least  we  have  remembered  the  difference  between  a blank 
surface  of  Caen  stone,  and  one  mixed  from  Genoa  and  Car- 
rara, of  serpentine  with  snow  : but  as  regards  abstract  power 
and  awfulness,  there  is  no  question ; without  breadth  of  sur- 
face it  is  in  vain  to  seek  them,  and  it  matters  little,  so  that  the 
surface  be  wide,  bold  and  unbroken,  whether  it  be  of  brick  or 
of  jasper  ; the  light  of  heaven  upon  it,  and  the  weight  of  earth 
in  it,  are  all  we  need : for  it  is  singular  how  forgetful  the  mind 
may  become  both  of  material  and  workmanship,  if  only  it  have 
space  enough  over  which  to  range,  and  to  remind  it,  however 
feebly,  of  the  joy  that  it  has  in  contemplating  the  flatness 
and  sweep  of  great  plains  and  broad  seas.  And  it  is  a noble 
thing  for  men  to  do  this  with  their  cut  stone  or  moulded 
clay,  and  to  make  the  face  of  a wall  look  infinite,  and  its  edge 
against  the  sky  like  an  horizon  : or  even  if  less  than  this  be 
reached,  it  is  still  delightful  to  mark  the  play  of  passing  light 
on  its  broad  surface,  and  to  see  by  how  manj^  artifices  and 
gradations  of  tinting  and  shadow,  time  and  storm  will  set 
their  wild  signatures  upon  it ; and  how  in  the  rising  or  de- 
clining of  the  day  the  unbroken  twilight  rests  long  and  lu- 
ridly on  its  high  lineless  forehead,  and  fades  away  untraceably 
down  its  tiers  of  confused  and  countless  stone. 

IX.  This,  then,  being,  as  I think,  one  of  the  peculiar  ele- 
ments of  sublime  architecture,  it  may  be  easily  seen  how  neces* 


78 


THE  LAMP  OF  POWER. 


sarily  consequent  upon  the  love  of  it  will  be  the  choice  of  a 
form  approaching  to  the  square  for  the  main  outline. 

For,  in  whatever  direction  the  building  is  contracted,  in 
that  direction  the  eye  wTill  be  drawn  to  its  terminal  lines  ; and 
the  sense  of  surface  will  only  be  at  its  fullest  when  those  lines 
are  removed,  in  every  direction,  as  far  as  possible.  Thus  the 
square  and  circle  are  pre-eminently  the  areas  of  power  among 
those  bounded  by  purely  straight  or  curved  lines  ; and  these, 
with  their  relative  solids,  the  cube  and  sphere,  and  relative 
solids  of  progression  (as  in  the  investigation  of  the  laws  of 
proportion  I shall  call  those  masses  which  are  generated  by 
the  progression  of  an  area  of  given  form  along  a line  in  a 
given  direction),  the  square  and  cylindrical  column,  are  the 
elements  of  utmost  power  in  all  architectural  arrangements. 
On  the  other  hand,  grace  and  perfect  proportion  require  an 
elongation  in  some  one  direction  : and  a sense  of  power  may 
be  communicated  to  this  form  of  magnitude  by  a continuous 
series  of  any  marked  features,  such  as  the  eye  may  be  unable 
to  number  ; while  yet  we  feel,  from  their  boldness,  decision, 
and  simplicity,  that  it  is  indeed  their  multitude  which  has 
embarrassed  us,  not  any  confusion  or  indistinctness  of  form. 
This  expedient  of  continued  series  forms  the  sublimity  of 
arcades  and  aisles,  of  all  ranges  of  columns,  and,  on  a smaller 
scale,  of  those  Greek  mouldings,  of  which,  repeated  as  they 
now  are  in  all  the  meanest  and  most  familiar  forms  of  our  fur- 
niture, it  is  impossible  altogether  to  weary.  Now,  it  is  evi- 
dent that  the  architect  has  choice  of  two  types  of  form,  each 
properly  associated  with  its  own  kind  of  interest  or  decora- 
tion : the  square,  or  greatest  area,  to  be  chosen  especially 
w'hen  the  surface  is  to  be  the  subject  of  thought ; and  the 
elongated  area,  when  the  divisions  of  the  surface  are  to  be  the 
subjects  of  thought.  Both  these  orders  of  form,  as  I think 
nearly  every  other  source  of  power  and  beauty,  are  marvel- 
lously united  in  that  building  which  I fear  to  weary  the  reader 
by  bringing  forward  too  frequently,  as  a model  of  all  perfec- 
tion— the  Doge’s  palace  at  Venice  : its  general  arrangement, 
a hollow  square  ; its  principal  fagade,  an  oblong,  elongated  to 
the  eye  by  a range  of  thirty-four  small  arches,  and  thirty-five 


THE  LAMP  OF  PO  WER. 


79 


columns,  wliile  it  is  separated  by  a richly-canopied  window  in 
the  centre,  into  two  massive  divisions,  whose  height  and  length 
are  nearly  as  four  to  five ; the  arcades  which  give  it  length 
being  confined  to  the  lower  stories,  and  the  upper,  between 
its  broad  windows,  left  a mighty  surface  of  smooth  marble, 
chequered  with  blocks  of  alternate  rose  color  and  white.  It 
would  be  impossible,  I believe,  to  invent  a more  magnificent 
arrangement  of  all  that  is  in  building  most  dignified  and  most 
fair. 

X.  In  the  Lombard  Komanesque,  the  two  principles  are 
more  fused  into  each  other,  as  most  characteristically  in  the 
Cathedral  of  Pisa  : length  of  proportion,  exhibited  by  an  ar- 
cade of  twenty-one  arches  above,  and  fifteen  below,  at  the  side 
of  the  nave  ; bold  square  proportion  in  the  front ; that  front 
divided  into  arcades,  placed  one  above  the  other,  the  lowest 
with  its  pillars  engaged,  of  seven  arches,  the  four  uppermost 
thrown  out  boldly  from  the  receding  wall,  and  casting  deep 
shadows;  the  first,  above  the  basement,  of  nineteen  arches; 
the  second  of  twenty-one  ; the  third  and  fourth  of  eight  each  ; 
sixty-three  arches  in  all  ; all  circular  headed,  all  with  cylin- 
drical shafts,  and  the  lowTest  with  square  panellings,  set  diag- 
onally under  their  semicircles,  an  universal  ornament  in  this 
style  ("Plate  XII.,  fig.  7)  ; the  apse,  a semicircle,  with  a semi- 
dome for  its  roof,  and  three  ranges  of  circular  arches  for  its 
exterior  ornament ; in  the  interior  of  the  nave,  a range  of 
circular  arches  below  a circular-arched  triforium,  and  a vast 
fiat  surface,  observe,  of  wall  decorated  with  striped  marble 
above  ; the  whole  arrangement  (not  a peculiar  one,  but  char- 
acteristic of  every  church  of  the  period  ; and,  to  my  feeling, 
the  most  majestic  ; not  perhaps  the  fairest,  but  the  mightiest 
type  of  form  which  the  mind  of  man  has  ever  conceived) 
based  exclusively  on  associations  of  the  circle  and  the  square. 

I am  now,  however,  trenching  upon  ground  which  I desire 
to  reserve  for  more  careful  examination,  in  connection  with 
other  aesthetic  questions : but  I believe  the  examples  I have 
given  wall  justify  my  vindication  of  the  square  form  from  the 
X’eprobation  which  has  been  lightly  throwm  upon  it ; nor  might 
this  be  done  for  it  only  as  a ruling  outline,  but  as  occurring 


80 


TEE  LAMP  OF  POWER. 


constantly  in  the  best  mosaics,  and  in  a thousand  forms  oi 
minor  decoration,  which  I cannot  now  examine  ; my  chief 
assertion  of  its  majesty  being  always  as  it  is  an  exponent  of 
space  and  surface,  and  therefore  to  be  chosen,  either  to  rule  in 
their  outlines,  or  to  adorn  by  masses  of  light  and  shade  those 
portions  of  buildings  in  which  surface  is  to  be  rendered  pre- 
cious or  honorable. 

XI.  Thus  far,  then,  of  general  forms,  and  of  the  modes  in 
which  the  scale  of  architecture  is  best  to  be  exhibited.  Let 
us  next  consider  the  manifestations  of  power  which  belong  to 
its  details  and  lesser  divisions. 

The  first  division  we  have  to  regard,  is  the  inevitable  one 
of  masonry.  It  is  true  that  this  division  may,  by  great  art,  be 
concealed  ; but  I think  it  unwise  (as  well  as  dishonest)  to  do 
so  ; for  this  reason,  that  there  is  a very  noble  character  always 
to  be  obtained  by  the  opposition  of  large  stones  to  divided 
masonry,  as  by  shafts  and  columns  of  one  piece,  or  massy 
lintels  and  architraves,  to  wall  work  of  bricks  or  smaller  stones  ; 
and  there  is  a certain  organization  in  the  management  of  such 
parts,  like  that  of  the  continuous  bones  of  the  skeleton,  op- 
posed to  the  vertebrae,  which  it  is  not  well  to  surrender.  I 
hold,  therefore,  that,  for  this  and  other  reasons,  the  masonry 
of  a building  is  to  be  shown  : and  also  that,  with  certain  rare 
exceptions  (as  in  the  cases  of  chapels  and  shrines  of  most  fin- 
ished workmanship ) , the  smaller  the  building,  the  more  neces- 
sary it  is  that  its  masonry  should  be  bold,  and  vice  versa. 
For  if  a building  be  under  the  mark  of  average  magnitude,  it 
is  not  in  our  power  to  increase  its  apparent  size  (too  easily 
measurable)  by  any  proportionate  diminution  in  the  scale  of 
its  masonry.  But  it  may  be  often  in  our  power  to  give  it  a 
certain  nobility  by  building  it  of  massy  stones,  or,  at  all  events, 
introducing  such  into  its  make.  Thus  it  is  impossible  that 
there  should  ever  be  majesty  in  a cottage  built  of  brick  ; but 
there  is  a marked  element  of  sublimity  in  the  rude  and  irre- 
gular piling  of  the  rocky  walls  of  the  mountain  cottages  of 
Wales,  Cumberland,  and  Scotland.  Their  size  is  not  one  whit 
diminished,  though  four  or  five  stones  reach  at  their  angles 
from  the  ground  to  the  eaves,  or  though  a native  rock  happen 


THE  LAMP  OF  POWER. 


81 


to  project  conveniently,  and  to  be  built  into  the  framework  ol 
the  wall.  On  the  other  hand,  after  a building  has  once  reached 
the  mark  of  majestic  size,  it  matters,  indeed,  comparatively 
little  whether  its  masonry  be  large  or  small,  but  if  it  be  al- 
together large,  it  will  sometimes  diminish  the  magnitude  for 
want  of  a measure  ; if  altogether  small,  it  will  suggest  ideas 
of  poverty  in  material,  or  deficiency  in  mechanical  resource* 
besides  interfering  in  many  cases  with  the  lines  of  the  design, 
and  delicacy  of  the  workmanship.  A very  unhappy  instance 
of  such  interference  exists  in  the  fagade  of  the  church  of  St. 
Madeleine  at  Paris,  where  the  columns,  being  built  of  very 
small  stones  of  nearly  equal  size,  with  visible  joints,  look  as  if 
they  were  covered  with  a close  trellis.  So,  then,  that  masonry 
will  be  generally  the  most  magnificent  which,  without  the  use 
of  materials  systematically  small  or  large,  accommodates  itself, 
naturally  and  frankly,  to  the  conditions  and  structure  of  its 
work,  and  displays  alike  its  powTer  of  dealing  with  the  vastest 
masses,  and  of  accomplishing  its  purpose  writh  the  smallest, 
sometimes  heaping  rock  upon  rock  with  Titanic  commandment, 
and  anon  binding  the  dusty  remnants  and  edgy  splinters  into 
springing  vaults  and  swelling  domes.  And  if  the  nobility  of  this 
confessed  and  natural  masonry  were  more  commonly  felt,  wTe 
should  not  lose  the  dignity  of  it  by  smoothing  surfaces  and 
fitting  joints.  The  sums  which  we  waste  in  chiselling  and 
polishing  stones  which  would  have  been  better  left  as  they 
came  from  the  quarry  would  often  raise  a building  a story 
higher.  Only  in  this  there  is  to  be  a certain  respect  for 
material  also  : for  if  wre  build  in  marble,  or  in  any  limestone, 
the  knowm  ease  of  the  workmanship  will  make  its  absence 
seem  slovenly  ; it  will  be  well  to  take  advantage  of  the  stone’s 
softness,  and  to  make  the  design  delicate  and  dependent  upon 
smoothness  of  chiselled  surfaces : but  if  we  build  in  granite 
or  lava,  it  is  a folly,  in  most  cases,  to  cast  away  the  labor 
necessary  to  smooth  it ; it  is  wTiser  to  make  the  design  granitic 
itself,  and  to  leave  the  blocks  rudely  squared.  I do  not  deny 
a certain  splendor  and  sense  of  power  in  the  smoothing  of 
granite,  and  in  the  entire  subduing  of  its  iron  resistance  to 
the  human  supremacy.  But,  m most  cases,  I believe,  the  laboj 
6 


82 


THE  LAMP  OF  POWER. 


and  time  necessary  to  do  this  would  be  better  spent  in  anothei 
way ; and  that  to  raise  a building  to  a height  of  a hundred 
feet  with  rough  blocks,  is  better  than  to  raise  it  to  seventy 
with  smooth  ones.  There  is  also  a magnificence  in  the  natural 
cleavage  of  the  stone  to  which  the  art  must  indeed  be  great 
that  pretends  to  be  equivalent ; and  a stern  expression  of 
brotherhood  with  the  mountain  heart  from  which  it  has  been 
rent,  ill-exchanged  for  a glistering  obedience  to  the  rule  and 
measure  of  men.  His  eye  must  be  delicate  indeed,  who  would 
desire  to  see  the  Pitti  palace  polished. 

XII.  Next  to  those  of  the  masonry,  we  have  to  consider 
the  divisions  of  the  design  itself.  Those  divisions  are,  neces- 
sarily, either  into  masses  of  light  and  shade,  or  else  by  traced 
lines  ; which  latter  must  be,  indeed,  themselves  produced  by 
incisions  or  projections  which,  in  some  lights,  cast  a certain 
breadth  of  shade,  but  which  may,  nevertheless,  if  finely  enough 
cut,  be  always  true  lines,  in  distant  effect.  I call,  for  instance, 
such  panelling  as  that  of  Henry  the  Seventh’s  chapel,  pure 
linear  division. 

Now,  it  does  not  seem  to  me  sufficiently  recollected,  that  a 
wall  surface  is  to  an  architect  simply  what  a white  canvas  is  to 
a painter,  with  this  only  difference,  that  the  wall  has  already  a 
sublimity  in  its  height,  substance,  and  other  characters  already 
considered,  on  which  it  is  more  dangerous  to  break  than  to 
touch  with  shade  the  canvas  surface.  And,  for  my  own  part, 
I think  a smooth,  broad,  freshly  laid  surface  of  gesso  a fairer 
thing  than  most  pictures  I see  painted  on  it ; much  more,  a 
noble  surface  of  stone  than  most  architectural  features  which 
it  is  caused  to  assume.  But  however  this  may  be,  the  canvas 
and  wall  are  supposed  to  be  given,  and  it  is  our  craft  to  divide 
them. 

And  the  principles  on  which  this  division  is  to  be  made,  are 
as  regards  relation  of  quantities,  the  same  in  architecture  as 
in  painting,  or  indeed,  in  any  other  art  whatsoever,  only  the 
painter  is  by  his  varied  subject  partly  permitted,  partly  com- 
pelled, to  dispense  with  the  symmetry  of  architectural  light 
and  shade,  and  to  adopt  arrangements  apparently  free  and 
accidental.  So  that  in  modes  of  grouping  there  is  much  dif 


THE  LAMP  OF  POWER . 


83 


ference  (though  no  opposition)  between  the  two  arts  ; but  in 
rules  of  quantity,  both  are  alike,  so  far  forth  as  their  com- 
mands of  means  are  alike.  For  the  architect,  not  being  able 
to  secure  always  the  same  depth  or  decision  of  shadow,  nor 
to  add  to  its  sadness  by  color  (because  even  when  color  is 
employed,  it  cannot  follow  the  moving  shade),  is  compelled 
to  make  many  allowances,  and  avail  himself  of  many  con- 
trivances, which  the  painter  needs  neither  consider  nor 
employ. 

XIII.  Of  these  limitations  the  first  consequence  is,  that 
positive  shade  is  a more  necessary  and  more  sublime  thing  in 
an  architect’s  hands  than  in  a painter’s.  For  the  latter  being 
able  to  temper  his  light  with  an  under-tone  throughout,  and 
to  make  it  delightful  with  sweet  color,  or  awful  with  lurid 
color,  and  to  represent  distance,  and  air,  and  sun,  by  the 
depth  of  it,  and  fill  its  whole  space  with  expression,  can  deal 
with  an  enormous,  nay,  almost  with  an  universal  extent  of  it, 
and  the  best  painters  most  delight  in  such  extent ; but  as 
light,  with  the  architect,  is  nearly  always  liable  to  become  full 
and  untempered  sunshine  seen  upon  solid  surface,  his  only 
rests,  and  his  chief  means  of  sublimity,  are  definite  shades. 
Bo  that,  after  size  and  weight,  the  Power  of  architecture  may 
be  said  to  depend  on  the  quantity  (whether  measured  in  space 
or  intenseness)  of  its  shadow  ; and  it  seems  to  me,  that  the 
reality  of  its  works,  and  the  use  and  influence  they  have  in  the 
daily  life  of  men  (as  opposed  to  those  works  of  art  with  which 
we  have  nothing  to  do  but  in  times  of  rest  or  of  pleasure) 
require  of  it  that  it  should  express  a kind  of  human  sympathy, 
by  a measure  of  darkness  as  great  as  there  is  in  human  life  : 
and  that  as  the  great  poem  and  great  fiction  generally  affect 
us  most  by  the  majesty  of  their  masses  of  shade,  and  cannot 
take  hold  upon  us  if  they  affect  a continuance  of  lyric  spright- 
liness,  but  must  be  serious  often,  and  sometimes  melancholy, 
else  they  do  not  express  the  truth  of  this  wild  world  of  ours ; 
so  there  must  be,  in  this  magnificently  human  art  of  architec- 
ture, some  equivalent  expression  for  the  trouble  and  wrath 
of  life,  for  its  sorrow  and  its  mystery  : and  this  it  can  only 
give  by  depth  or  diffusion  of  gloom,  by  the  frown  upon  its 


84 


TEE  LAMP  OF  POWER. 


front,  and  the  shadow  of  its  recess.  So  that  Rembrandtism 
is  a noble  manner  in  architecture,  though  a false  one  in  paint- 
ing ; and  I do  not  believe  that  ever  any  building  was  truly 
great,  unless  it  had  mighty  masses,  vigorous  and  deep,  of 
shadow  mingled  with  its  surface.  And  among  the  first  habits 
that  a young  architect  should  learn,  is  that  of  thinking  in 
shadow,  not  looking  at  a design  in  its  miserable  liny  skeleton  ; 
but  conceiving  it  as  it  will  be  when  the  dawn  lights  it,  and 
the  dusk  leaves  it ; when  its  stones  will  be  hot  and  its  cran- 
nies cool  ; when  the  lizards  will  bask  on  the  one,  and  the 
birds  build  in  the  other.  Let  him  design  with  the  sense  of 
cold  and  heat  upon  him  ; let  him  cut  out  the  shadows,  as  men 
dig  wells  in  un watered  plains  ; and  lead  along  the  lights,  as  a 
founder  does  his  hot  metal ; let  him  keep  the  full  command  of 
both,  and  see  that  he  knows  how  they  fall,  and  where  they  fade. 
His  paper  lines  and  proportions  are  of  no  value  : all  that  he 
has  to  do  must  be  done  by  spaces  of  light  and  darkness  ; and 
his  business  is  to  see  that  the  one  is  broad  and  bold  enough 
not  to  be  swallowed  up  by  twilight,  and  the  other  deep  enough 
not  to  be  dried  like  a shallow  pool  by  a noon-day  sun. 

And  that  this  may  be,  the  first  necessity  is  that  the  quanti- 
ties of  shade  or  light,  whatever  they  may  be,  shall  be  thrown 
into  masses,  either  of  something  like  equal  weight,  or  else 
large  masses  of  the  one  relieved  with  small  of  the  other  ; but 
masses  of  one  or  other  kind  there  must  be.  No  design  that 
is  divided  at  all,  and  is  not  divided  into  masses,  can  ever  be 
of  the  smallest  value  : this  great  law  respecting  breadth,  pre- 
cisely the  same  in  architecture  and  painting,  is  so  important, 
that  the  examination  of  its  two  principal  applications  will 
include  most  of  the  conditions  of  majestic  design  on  which  I 
would  at  present  insist. 

XIV.  Painters  are  in  the  habit  of  speaking  loosely  of  masses 
of  light  and  shade,  meaning  thereby  any  large  spaces  of 
either.  Nevertheless,  it  is  convenient  sometimes  to  restrict 
the  term  mass  ” to  the  portions  to  which  proper  form  be- 
longs, and  to  call  the  field  on  which  such  forms  are  traced, 
interval.  Thus,  in  foliage  with  projecting  boughs  or  stems, 
we  have  masses  of  light,  with  intervals  of  shade  ; and,  in 


THE  LAMP  OF  POWER. 


85 


light  skies  with  dark  clouds  upon  them,  masses  of  shade  with 
intervals  of  light. 

This  distinction  is,  in  architecture,  still  more  necessary  ; 
for  there  are  two  marked  styles  dependent  upon  it : one  in 
which  the  forms  are  drawn  with  light  upon  darkness,  as  in 
Greek  sculpture  and  pillars ; the  other  in  which  they  are 
drawn  with  darkness  upon  light,  as  in  early  Gothic  foliation. 
Now,  it  is  not  in  the  designer’s  power  determinately  to  vary 
degrees  and  places  of  darkness,  but  it  is  altogether  in  his 
power  to  vary  in  determined  directions  his  degrees  of  light. 
Hence,  the  use  of  the  dark  mass  characterises,  generally,  a 
trenchant  style  of  design,  in  which  the  darks  and  lights  are 
both  flat,  and  terminated  by  sharp  edges  ; while  the  use  of 
the  light  mass  is  in  the  same  way  associated  with  a softened 
and  full  manner  of  design,  in  which  the  darks  are  much 
warmed  by  reflected  lights,  and  the  lights  are  rounded  and 
melt  into  them.  The  term  applied  by  Milton  to  Doric  bas- 
relief — “ bossy,5’  is,  as  is  generally  the  case  with  Milton’s 
epithets,  the  most  comprehensive  and  expressive  of  this  man- 
ner, which  the  English  language  contains ; while  the  term 
which  specifically  describes  the  chief  member  of  early  Gothic 
decoration,  feuille,  foil  or  leaf,  is  equally  significative  of  a 
flat  space  of  shade. 

XY.  \Ve  shall  shortly  consider  the  actual  modes  in  which 
these  two  kinds  of  mass  have  been  treated.  And,  first,  of  the 
light,  or  rounded,  mass.  The  modes  in  which  relief  was  se- 
cured for  the  more  projecting  forms  of  bas-relief,  by  the 
Greeks,  have  been  too  well  described  by  Mr.  Eastlake  * to  need 
recapitulation  : the  conclusion  which  forces  itself  upon  us  from 
the  facts  he  has  remarked,  being  one  on  which  I shall  have  occa- 
sion farther  to  insist  presently,  that  the  Greek  workman  cared 
for  shadow  only  as  a dark  field  wherefrom  his  light  figure  or  de- 
sign might  be  intelligibly  detached : his  attention  was  concen- 
trated on  the  one  aim  at  readableness,  and  clearness  of  accent ; 
and  all  composition,  all  harmony,  nay,  the  very  vitality  and 
energy  of  separate  groups  were,  when  necessary,  sacrificed  to 
plain  speaking.  Nor  was  there  any  predilection  for  one  kind 
* Literature  of  the  Fine  Arts. — Essay  on  Bas-relief. 


m 


THE  LAMP  OF  PO  WEE. 


of  form  rather  than  another.  Rounded  forms  were,  in  the 
columns  and  principal  decorative  members,  adopted,  not  for 
their  own  sake,  but  as  characteristic  of  the  things  represented. 
They  were  beautifully  rounded,  because  the  Greek  habitually 
did  well  what  he  had  to  do,  not  because  he  loved  roundness 
more  than  squareness  ; severely  rectilinear  forms  were  asso- 
ciated with  the  curved  ones  in  the  cornice  and  triglyph,  and  the 
mass  of  the  pillar  was  divided  by  a fluting,  which,  in  distant 
effect,  destroyed  much  of  its  breadth.  What  power  of  light 
these  primal  arrangements  left,  was  diminished  in  successive 
refinements  and  additions  of  ornament ; and  continued  to  di- 
minish through  Roman  work,  until  the  confirmation  of  the 
circular  arch  as  a decorative  feature.  Its  lovely  and  simple 
line  taught  the  eye  to  ask  for  a similar  boundary  of  solid  form  ; 
the  dome  followed,  and  necessarily  the  decorative  masses  were 
thenceforward  managed  with  reference  to,  and  in  sympathy 
with,  the  chief  feature  of  the  building.  Hence  arose,  among 
the  Byzantine  architects,  a system  of  ornament,  entirely  re- 
strained within  the  superfices  of  curvilinear  masses,  on  which 
the  light  fell  with  as  unbroken  gradation  as  on  a dome  or  col- 
umn, while  the  illumined  surface  was  nevertheless  cut  into 
details  of  singular  and  most  ingenious  intricacy.  Something 
is,  of  course,  to  be  allowed  for  the  less  dexterity  of  the  work- 
men ; it  being  easier  to  cut  down  into  a solid  block,  than  to 
arrange  the  projecting  portions  of  leaf  on  the  Greek  capital : 
such  leafy  capitals  are  nevertheless  executed  by  the  Byzantines 
with  skill  enough  to  show  that  their  preference  of  the  massive 
form  was  by  no  means  compulsory,  nor  can  I think  it  unwise. 
On  the  contrary,  while  the  arrangements  of  line  are  far  more 
artful  in  the  Greek  capital,  the  Byzantine  light  and  shade  are 
as  incontestably  more  grand  and  masculine,  based  on  that 
quality  of  pure  gradation,  which  nearly  all  natural  objects 
possess,  and  the  attainment  of  which  is,  in  fact,  the  first  and 
most  palpable  purpose  in  natural  arrangements  of  grand  form. 
The  rolling  heap  of  the  thunder-cloud,  divided  by  rents,  and 
multiplied  by  wreaths,  yet  gathering  them  all  into  its  broad, 
torrid,  and  towering  zone,  and  its  midnight  darkness  oppo- 
site ; the  scarcely  less  majestic  heave  of  the  mountain  side,  all 


THE  LAMP  OF  POWER. 


87 


torn  and  traversed  by  depth  of  defile  and  ridge  of  rock,  yet 
never  losing  the  unity  of  its  illumined  swell  and  shadowy  de- 
cline ; and  the  head  of  every  mighty  tree,  rich  with  tracery  of 
leaf  and  bough,  yet  terminated  against  the  sky  by  a true  line, 
and  rounded  by  a green  horizon,  which,  multiplied  in  the  dis- 
tant forest,  makes  it  look  bossy  from  above  ; all  these  mark, 
for  a great  and  honored  law,  that  diffusion  of  light  for  which 
the  Byzantine  ornaments  were  designed  ; and  show  us  that 
those  builders  had  truer  sympathy  with  what  God  made  majes- 
tic, than  the  self-contemplating  and  self-contented  Greek.  I 
know  that  they  are  barbaric  in  comparison ; but  there  is  a 
power  in  their  barbarism  of  sterner  tone,  a power  not  sophistic 
nor  penetrative,  but  embracing  and  mysterious  ; a power  faith- 
ful more  than  thoughtful,  which  conceived  and  felt  more  than 
it  created  ; a power  that  neither  comprehended  nor  ruled  it- 
self, but  worked  and  wandered  as  it  listed,  like  mountain 
streams  and  winds  ; and  which  could  not  rest  in  the  expression 
or  seizure  of  finite  form.  It  could  not  bury  itself  in  acanthus 
leaves.  Its  imagery  was  taken  from  the  shadows  of  the  storms 
and  hills,  and  had  fellowship  with  the  night  and  day  of  the 
earth  itself. 

XVI.  I have  endeavored  to  give  some  idea  of  one  of  the 
hollow  balls  of  stone  which,  surrounded  by  flowing  leafage, 
occur  in  varied  succession  on  the  architrave  of  the  central 
gate  of  St.  Mark’s  at  Venice,  in  Plate  I.  fig.  2.  It  seems  to 
me  singularly  beautiful  in  its  unity  of  lightness,  and  delicacy 
of  detail,  with  breadth  of  light.  It  looks  as  if  its  leaves  had 
been  sensitive,  and  had  risen  and  shut  themselves  into  a bud 
at  some  sudden  touch,  and  would  presently  fall  back  again 
into  their  wild  flow.  The  cornices  of  San  Michele  of  Lucca, 
seen  above  and  below  the  arch,  in  Plate  VI.,  show  the  effect 
of  heavy  leafage  and  thick  stems  arranged  on  a surface  whose 
curve  is  a simple  quadrant,  the  light  dying  from  off  them  as 
it  turns.  It  would  be  difficult,  as  I think,  to  invent  anything 
more  noble  ; and  I insist  on  the  broad  character  of  their  ar- 
rangement the  more  earnestly,  because,  afterwards  modified 
by  greater  skill  in  its  management,  it  became  characteristic  of 
the  richest  pieces  of  Gothic  design.  The  capital,  given  in 


88 


THE  LAMP  OF  POWER 


Plate  V.,  is  of  the  noblest  period  of  the  Venetian  Gothic  ; and 
it  is  interesting  to  see  the  play  of  leafage  so  luxuriant,  abso- 
lutely subordinated  to  the  breadth  of  two  masses  of  light  and 
shade.  What  is  done  by  the  Venetian  architect,  with  a power 
as  irresistible  as  that  of  the  waves  of  his  surrounding  sea,  is 
done  by  the  masters  of  the  Cis-Alpine  Gothic,  more  timidly, 
and  with  a manner  somewhat  cramped  and  cold,  but  not  less 
expressing  their  assent  to  the  same  great  law.  The  ice  spic- 
ulse  of  the  North,  and  its  broken  sunshine,  seem  to  have 
image  in,  and  influence  on  the  work  ; and  the  leaves  which, 
under  the  Italian’s  hand,  roll,  and  flow,  and  bow  down  over 
their  black  shadows,  as  in  the  weariness  of  noon-day  heat,  are, 
in  the  North,  crisped  and  frost-bitten,  wrinkled  on  the  edges, 
and  sparkling  as  if  with  dew.  But  the  rounding  of  the  ruling 
form  is  not  less  sought  and  felt.  In  the  lower  part  of  Plate  I. 
is  the  finial  of  the  pediment  given  in  Plate  II. , from  the  cathe- 
dral of  St.  Lo.  It  is  exactly  similar  in  feeling  to  the  Byzan- 
tine capital,  being  rounded  under  the  abacus  by  four  branches 
of  thistle  leaves,  wdiose  stems,  springing  from  the  angles,  bend 
outwards  and  fall  back  to  the  head,  throwing  their  jaggy 
spines  down  upon  the  full  light,  forming  two  sharp  quatre- 
foils.  I could  not  get  near  enough  to  this  finial  to  see  with 
what  degree  of  delicacy  the  spines  were  cut  ; but  I have 
sketched  a natural  group  of  thistle-leaves  beside  it,  that  the 
reader  may  compare  the  types,  and  see  with  what  mastery 
they  are  subjected  to  the  broad  form  of  the  whole.  The  small 
capital  from  Coutances,  Plate  XIII.  fig.  4,  w hich  is  of  earlier 
date,  is  of  simpler  elements,  and  exhibits  the  principle  still 
more  clearly  ; but  the  St.  Lo  finial  is  only  one  of  a thousand 
instances  which  might  be  gathered  even  from  the  fully  de- 
veloped flamboyant,  the  feeling  of  breadth  being  retained  in 
minor  ornaments  long  after  it  had  been  lost  in  the  main  de- 
sign, and  sometimes  capriciously  renewing  itself  throughout, 
as  in  the  cylindrical  niches  and  pedestals  winch  enrich  the 
porches  of  Caudebee  and  Bouen.  Fig.  1,  Plate  I.  is  the  sim- 
plest of  those  of  Bouen  ; in  the  more  elaborate  there  are  four 
projecting  sides,  divided  by  buttresses  into  eight  rounded 
compartments  of  tracery  ; even  the  whole  bulk  of  the  outer 


THE  LAMP  OF  POWER. 


89 


pier  is  treated  with  the  same  feeling  ; and  though  composed 
partly  of  concave  recesses,  party  of  square  shafts,  partly  oi 
statues  and  tabernacle  work,  arranges  itself  as  a whole  into 
one  richly  rounded  tower. 

XVII.  I cannot  here  enter  into  the  curious  questions  con- 
nected with  the  management  of  larger  curved  surfaces  ; into 
the  causes  of  the  difference  in  proportion  necessary  to  be 
observed  between  round  and  square  towers ; nor  into  the 
reasons  why  a column  or  ball  may  be  richly  ornamented, 
while  surface  decorations  would  be  inexpedient  on  masses 
like  the  Castle  of  St.  Angelo,  the  tomb  of  Cecilia  Metella,  or 
the  dome  of  St.  Peter’s.  But  what  has  been  above  said  of  the 
desireableness  of  serenity  in  plane  surfaces,  applies  still  more 
forcibly  to  those  which  are  curved  ; and  it  is  to  be  remem- 
bered that  we  are,  at  present,  considering  how  this  serenity 
and  power  may  be  carried  into  minor  divisions,  not  how  the 
ornamental  character  of  the  lower  form  may,  upon  occasion, 
be  permitted  to  fret  the  calmness  of  the  higher.  Nor,  though 
the  instances  we  have  examined  are  of  globular  or  cylindrical 
masses  chiefly,  is  it  to  be  thought  that  breadth  can  only  be 
secured  by  such  alone  : many  of  the  noblest  forms  are  of  sub- 
dued curvature,  sometimes  hardly  visible ; but  curvature  of 
some  degree  there  must  be,  in  order  to  secure  any  measure 
of  grandeur  in  a small  mass  of  light.  One  of  the  most 
marked  distinctions  between  one  artist  and  another,  in  the 
point  of  skill,  will  be  found  in  their  relative  delicacy  of  per- 
ception of  rounded  surface  ; the  full  power  of  expressing  the 
perspective,  foreshortening  and  various  undulation  of  such 
surface  is,  perhaps,  the  last  and  most  difficult  attainment  of 
the  hand  and  eye.  For  instance  : there  is,  perhaps,  no  tree 
which  has  baffled  the  landscape  painter  more  than  the  com- 
mon black  spruce  fir.  It  is  rare  that  we  see  any  representa- 
tion of  it  other  than  caricature.  It  is  conceived  as  if  it  grew 
in  one  plane,  or  as  a section  of  a tree,  with  a set  of  boughs 
symmetrically  dependent  on  opposite  sides.  It  is  thought 
formal,  unmanageable,  and  ugly.  It  would  be  so,  if  it  grew 
as  it  is  drawn.  But  the  power  of  the  tree  is  not  in  that  chan- 
delier-like section.  It  is  in  the  dark,  flat,  solid  tables  ol 


90 


THE  LAMP  OF  POWER. 


leafage,  which  it  holds  out  on  its  strong  arras,  curved  slightlj 
over  them  like  shields,  and  spreading  towards  the  extremity 
like  a hand.  It  is  vain  to  endeavor  to  paint  the  sharp,  grassy, 
intricate  leafage,  until  this  ruling  form  has  been  secured ; 
and  in  the  boughs  that  approach  the  spectator,  the  foreshort- 
ening of  it  is  like  that  of  a wide  hill  country,  ridge  just  rising 
over  ridge  in  successive  distances  ; and  the  finger-like  ex- 
tremities, foreshortened  to  absolute  bluntness,  require  a deli- 
cacy in  the  rendering  of  them  like  that  of  the  drawing  of  the 
hand  of  the  Magdalene  upon  the  vase  in  Mr.  Rogers’s  Titian. 
Get  but  the  back  of  that  foliage,  and  you  have  the  tree  ; but 
I cannot  name  the  artist  who  has  thoroughly  felt  it.  So,  in 
all  drawing  and  sculpture,  it  is  the  power  of  rounding,  softly 
and  perfectly,  every  inferior  mass  which  preserves  the  seren- 
it}',  as  it  follows  the  truth,  of  Nature,  and  which  demands  the 
highest  knowledge  and  skill  from  the  workman.  A noble  de- 
sign may  always  be  told  by  the  back  of  a single  leaf,  and  it 
w7as  the  sacrifice  of  this  breadth  and  refinement  of  surface  for 
sharp  edges  and  extravagant  undercutting,  which  destroyed 
the  Gothic  mouldings,  as  the  substitution  of  the  line  for  the 
light  destroyed  the  Gothic  tracery.  This  change,  however, 
we  shall  better  comprehend  after  we  have  glanced,  at  the  chief 
conditions  of  arrangement  of  the  second  kind  of  mass  ; that 
which  is  flat,  and  of  shadow  only. 

XVIII.  We  have  noted  above  how  the  wall  surface,  com- 
posed of  rich  materials,  and  covered  with  costly  work,  in 
modes  which  we  shall  examine  in  the  next  Chapter,  became  a 
subject  of  peculiar  interest  to  the  Christian  architects.  Its 
broad  flat  lights  could  only  be  made  valuable  by  points  or 
masses  of  energetic  shadow,  which  were  obtained  by  the  Ro- 
manesque architect  by  means  of  ranges  of  recessed  arcade,  in 
the  management  of  which,  however,  though  all  the  effect  de- 
pends upon  the  shadow  so  obtained,  the  eye  is  still,  as  in 
classical  architecture,  caused  to  dwell  upon  the  projecting  col- 
umns, capitals,  and  wall,  as  in  Plate  VI.  But  with  the  enlarge- 
ment of  the  windows  which,  in  the  Lombard  and  Romanesque 
churches,  is  usually  little  more  than  an  arched  slit,  came  the 
conception  of  the  simpler  mode  of  decoration,  by  penetrations 


PLATE  VL— (Page  90-Yol.  Y.) 

Arch  from  the  Faqade  of  tite  CnuRcn  of  San  Michele,  at  Lucca. 


THE  LAMP  OF  POWER. 


91 


which,  seen  from  within,  are  forms  of  light,  and,  from  without, 
are  forms  of  shade.  In  Italian  traceries  the  eye  is  exclusively 
fixed  upon  the  dark  forms  of  the  penetrations,  and  the  whole 
proportion  and  power  of  the  design  are  caused  to  depend 
upon  them.  The  intermediate  spaces  are,  indeed,  in  the  most 
perfect  early  examples,  filled  with  elaborate  ornament ; but 
this  ornament  was  so  subdued  as  never  to  disturb  the  simplic- 
ity and  force  of  the  dark  masses  ; and  in  many  instances  is  en- 
tirely wanting.  The  composition  of  the  whole  depends  on  the 
proportioning  and  shaping  of  the  darks  ; and  it  is  impossible 
that  anything  can  be  more  exquisite  than  their  placing  in  the 
head  window  of  the  Giotto  campanile,  Plate  IX.,  or  the  church 
of  Or  San  Michele.  So  entirely  does  the  effect  depend  upon 
them,  that  it  is  quite  useless  to  draw  Italian  tracery  in  out- 
line ; if  with  any  intention  of  rendering  its  effect,  it  is  better 
to  mark  the  black  spots,  and  let  the  rest  alone.  Of  course, 
when  it  is  desired  to  obtain  an  accurate  rendering  of  the  de- 
sign, its  lines  and  mouldings  are  enough  ; but  it  often  hap- 
pens that  works  on  architecture  are  of  little  use,  because  they 
afford  the  reader  no  means  of  judging  of  the  effective  inten- 
tion of  the  arrangements  which  they  state.  No  person,  look- 
ing at  an  architectural  drawing  of  the  richly  foliaged  cusps 
and  intervals  of  Or  San  Michele,  would  understand  that  all 
this  sculpture  was  extraneous,  was  a mere  added  grace,  and 
had  nothing  to  do  with  the  real  anatomy  of  the  work,  and 
that  by  a few  bold  cuttings  through  a slab  of  stone  he  might 
reach  the  main  effect  of  it  all  at  once.  I have,  therefore,  in 
the  plate  of  the  design  of  Giotto,  endeavored  especially  to 
mark  these  points  of  purpose;  there,  as  in  every  other  in- 
stance, black  shadows  of  a graceful  form  lying  on  the  white 
surface  of  the  stone,  like  dark  leaves  laid  upon  snow.  Hence, 
as  before  observed,  the  universal  name  of  foil  applied  to  such 
ornaments. 

XIX.  In  order  to  the  obtaining  their  full  effect,  it  is  evident 
that  much  caution  is  necessary  in  the  management  of  the 
glass.  In  the  finest  instances,  the  traceries  are  open  lights, 
either  in  towers,  as  in  this  design  of  Giotto’s  or  in  external 
arcades  like  that  of  the  Campo  Santo  at  Pisa  or  the  Doge’s 


02 


TEE  LAMP  OF  POWER. 


palace  at  Venice  ; and  it  is  thus  only  that  their  full  beauty  is 
shown.  In  domestic  buildings,  or  in  windows  of  churches 
necessarily  glazed,  the  glass  was  usually  withdrawn  entirely 
behind  the  traceries.  Those  of  the  Cathedral  of  Florence 
stand  quite  clear  of  it,  casting  their  shadows  in  well  detached 
lines,  so  as  in  most  lights  to  give  the  appearance  of  a double 
tracery.  In  those  few  instances  in  which  the  glass  was  set  in 
the  tracery  itself,  as  in  Or  San  Michele,  the  effect  of  the  latter 
is  half  destroyed : perhaps  the  especial  attention  paid  by 
Orgagna  to  his  surface  ornament,  was  connected  with  the  in- 
tention of  so  glazing  them.  It  is  singular  to  see,  in  late  archi- 
tecture, the  glass,  which  tormented  the  older  architects,  con- 
sidered as  a valuable  means  of  making  the  lines  of  tracery  more 
slender  ; as  in  the  smallest  intervals  of  the  windows  of  Merton 
College,  Oxford,  where  the  glass  is  advanced  about  two  inches 
from  the  centre  of  the  tracery  bar  (that  in  the  larger  spaces 
being  in  the  middle,  as  usual),  in  order  to  prevent  the  depth 
of  shadow  from  farther  diminishing  the  apparent  interval. 
Much  of  the  lightness  of  the  effect  of  the  traceries  is  owing 
to  this  seemingly  unimportant  arrangement.  But,  generally 
speaking,  glass  spoils  all  traceries ; and  it  is  much  to  be 
wished  that  it  should  be  kept  well  within  them,  when  it  can- 
not be  dispensed  with,  and  that  the  most  careful  and  beauti- 
ful designs  should  be  reserved  for  situations  where  no  glass 
would  be  needed. 

XX.  The  method  of  decoration  by  shadow  was,  as  far  as 
we  have  hitherto  traced  it,  common  to  the  northern  and  south- 
ern Gothic.  But  in  the  carrying  out  of  the  system  they  in- 
stantly diverged.  Having  marble  at  his  command,  and  classi- 
cal decoration  in  his  sight,  the  southern  architect  was  able  to 
carve  the  intermediate  spaces  with  exquisite  leafage,  or  to  vary 
his  wall  surface  with  inlaid  stones.  The  northern  architect 
neither  knew  the  ancient  work,  nor  possessed  the  delieate 
material ; and  he  had  no  resource  but  to  cover  his  walls  with 
holes,  cut  into  foiled  shapes  like  those  of  the  windows.  This 
he  did,  often  with  great  clumsiness,  but  always  with  a vigor- 
ous sense  of  composition,  and  always,  observe,  depending  on 
the  shadows  for  effect  Where  the  wall  was  thick  and  could 


THE  LAMP  OF  POWER. 


93 


not  be  cut  through,  and  the  foilings  were  large,  those  shadows 
did  not  fill  the  entire  space  ; but  the  form  was,  nevertheless, 
drawn  on  the  eye  by  means  of  them,  and  when  it  was  possible, 
they  were  cut  clear  through,  as  in  raised  screens  of  pediment, 
like  those  on  the  west  front  of  Bayeux ; cut  so  deep  in  every 
case,  as  to  secure,  in  all  but  a direct  low  front  light,  great 
breadth  of  shadow. 

The  spandril,  given  at  the  top  of  Plate  YU.,  is  from  the 
southwestern  entrance  of  the  Cathedral  of  Lisieux  ; one  of 
the  most  quaint  and  interesting  doors  in  Normandy,  probably 
soon  to  be  lost  forever,  by  the  continuance  of  the  masonic 
operations  which  have  already  destroyed  the  northern  tower. 
Its  work  is  altogether  rude,  but  full  of  spirit ; the  opposite 
cpandrils  have  different,  though  balanced,  ornaments  very  in- 
accurately adjusted,  each  rosette  or  star  (as  the  five-rayed  fig- 
ure, now  quite  defaced,  in  the  upper  portion  appears  to  have 
been)  cut  on  its  own  block  of  stone  and  fitted  in  with  small 
nicety,  especially  illustrating  the  point  I have  above  insisted 
upon — the  architect’s  utter  neglect  of  the  forms  of  interme- 
diate stone,  at  this  early  period. 

The  arcade,  of  which  a single  arch  and  shaft  are  given  on 
the  left,  forms  the  flank  of  the  door  ; three  outer  shafts  bear- 
ing three  orders  within  the  spandril  which  I have  drawn,  and 
each  of  these  shafts  carried  over  an  inner  arcade,  decorated 
above  with  quatre-foils,  cut  concave  and  filled  with  leaves,  the 
whole  disposition  exquisitely  picturesque  and  full  of  strange 
play  of  light  and  shade. 

For  some  time  the  penetrative  ornaments,  if  so  they  may 
be  for  convenience  called,  maintained  their  bold  and  inde* 
pendent  character.  Then  they  multiplied  and  enlarged,  be, 
coming  shallower  as  they  did  so  ; then  they  began  to  run  to- 
gether, one  swallowing  up,  or  hanging  on  to,  another,  like 
bubbles  in  expiring  foam — fig.  4,  from  a spandril  at  Bayeux, 
looks  as  if  it  had  been  blown  from  a pipe  ; finally,  they  lost 
their  individual  character  altogether,  and  the  eye  was  made 
to  rest  on  the  separating  lines  of  tracery,  as  we  saw  before  in 
the  window  ; and  then  came  the  great  change  and  the  fall  qA 
the  Gothic  power. 


94 


THE  LAMP  OF  POWER. 


XXI.  Figs.  2 and  3,  the  one  a quadrant  of  the  star  window 
of  the  little  chapel  close  to  St.  Anastasia  at  Verona,  and  the 
other  a very  singular  example  from  the  church  of  the  Eremi- 
tani  at  Padua,  compared  with  fig.  5,  one  of  the  ornaments  of 
the  transept  towers  of  Eouen,  show  the  closely  correspond- 
ent conditions  of  the  early  Northern  and  Southern  Gothic.10 
But,  as  we  have  said,  the  Italian  architects,  not  being  embar- 
rassed for  decoration  of  wall  surface,  and  not  being  obliged, 
like  the  Northmen,  to  multiply  their  penetrations,  held  to  the 
system  for  some  time  longer  ; and  while  they  increased  the 
refinement  of  the  ornament,  kept  the  purity  of  the  plan. 
That  refinement  of  ornament  was  their  weak  point,  however, 
and  opened  the  way  for  the  renaissance  attack.  They  fell, 
like  the  old  Romans,  by  their  luxury,  except  in  the  separate 
instance  of  the  magnificent  school  of  Venice.  That  architect- 
ure began  with  the  luxuriance  in  which  all  others  expired : 
it  founded  itself  on  the  Byzantine  mosaic  and  fretwork  ; and 
laying  aside  its  ornaments,  one  by  one,  while  it  fixed  its  forms 
by  laws  more  and  more  severe,  stood  forth,  at  last,  a model 
of  domestic  Gothic,  so  grand,  so  complete,  so  nobly  systema- 
tised, that,  to  my  mind,  there  never  existed  an  architecture 
with  so  stern  a claim  to  our  reverence.  I do  not  except  even 
the  Greek  Doric  ; the  Doric  had  cast  nothing  away ; the  four- 
teenth century  Venetian  had  cast  away,  one  by  one,  for  a suc- 
cession of  centuries,  every  splendor  that  art  and  wealth  could 
give  it.  It  had  laid  down  its  crown  and  its  jewels,  its  gold 
and  its  color,  like  a king  disrobing  ; it  had  resigned  its  exer- 
tion, like  an  athlete  reposing  ; once  capricious  and  fantastic, 
it  had  bound  itself  by  laws  inviolable  and  serene  as  those  of 
nature  herself.  It  retained  nothing  but  its  beauty  and  its 
power ; both  the  highest,  but  both  restrained.  The  Doric 
Hidings  were  of  irregular  number — the  Venetian  mouldings 
were  unchangeable.  The  Doric  manner  of  ornament  admit- 
ted no  temptation,  it  was  the  fasting  of  an  anchorite — the 
Venetian  ornament  embraced,  while  it  governed,  all  vegetable 
and  animal  forms  ; it  was  the  temperance  of  a man,  the  com- 
mand of  Adam  over  creation.  I do  not  know  so  magnificent 
a marking  of  human  authority  as  the  iron  grasp  of  the  Vene* 


. 


I 


<v  : 


PLATE  Yin. -(Page  95— Yol.  Y.) 
Window  from  the  Ca’  Foscaki,  Venice. 


THE  LAMP  OF  POWER 


yn 

tian  over  his  own  exuberance  of  imagination  ; the  calm  and 
solemn  restraint  with  which,  his  mind  filled  with  thoughts  of 
flowing  leafage  and  fiery  life,  he  gives  those  thoughts  expres- 
sion for  an  instant,  and  then  withdraws  within  those  massy 
bars  and  level  cusps  of  stone.11 

And  his  power  to  do  this  depended  altogether  on  his  re« 
taining  the  forms  of  the  shadows  in  his  sight.  Ear  from  car- 
rying the  eye  to  the  ornaments,  upon  the  stone,  he  abandoned 
these  latter  one  by  one  ; and  while  his  mouldings  received 
the  most  shapely  order  and  symmetry,  closely  correspondent 
with  that  of  the  Eouen  tracery,  compare  Plates  III.  and  VUL, 
he  kept  the  cusps  within  them  perfectly  flat,  decorated,  if  at 
all,  with  a trefoil  (Palazzo  Foscari),  or  fillet  (Doge’s  Palace) 
just  traceable  and  no  more,  so  that  the  quatrefoil,  cut  as 
sharply  through  them  as  if  it  had  been  struck  out  by  a stamp, 
told  upon  the  eye,  with  all  its  four  black  leaves  miles  away. 
No  knots  of  flowerwork,  no  ornaments  of  any  kind,  were  suf- 
fered to  interfere  with  the  purity  of  its  form  : the  cusp  is 
usually  quite  sharp  ; but  slightly  truncated  in  the  Palazzo 
Foscari,  and  charged  with  a simple  bail  in  that  of  the  Doge  ; 
and  the  glass  of  the  window7,  where  there  was  any,  was,  as 
we  have  seen,  thrown  back  behind  the  stone- work,  that  no 
flashes  of  light  might  interfere  with  its  depth.  Corrupted 
forms,  like  those  of  the  Casa  d’Oro  and  Palazzo  Pisani,  and 
several  others,  only  serve  to  show7  the  majesty  of  the  common 
design. 

XXII,  Such  are  the  principal  circumstances  traceable  in  the 
treatment  of  the  two  kinds  of  masses  of  light  and  darkness, 
in  the  hands  of  the  earlier  architects  ; gradation  in  the  one, 
flatness  in  the  other,  and  breadth  in  both,  being  the  qualities 
sought  and  exhibited  by  every  possible  expedient,  up  to  the 
period  when,  as  we  have  before  stated,  the  line  was  substituted 
for  the  mass,  as  the  means  of  division  of  surface.  Enough 
has  been  said  to  illustrate  this,  as  regards  tracery  ; but  a word 
or  two  is  still  necessary  respecting  the  mouldings. 

Those  of  the  earlier  times  were,  in  the  plurality  of  instances, 
composed  of  alternate  square  and  cylindrical  shafts,  variously 
associated  and  proportioned.  Where  concave  cuttings  occur9 


96 


THE  LAMP  OF  POWER. 


as  in  the  beautiful  west  doors  of  Bayeux,  they  are  between 
cylindrical  shafts,  which  they  throw  out  into  broad  light.  The 
eye  in  all  cases  dwells  on  broad  surfaces,  and  commonly  upon 
few.  In  course  of  time,  a low  ridgy  process  is  seen  emerging 
along  the  outer  edge  of  the  cylindrical  shaft,  forming  a line  of 
light  upon  it  and  destroying  its  gradation.  Hardly  traceable 
at  first  (as  on  the  alternate  rolls  of  the  north  door  of  Bouen), 
it  grows  and  pushes  out  as  gradually  as  a stag’s  horns  : sharp 
at  first  on  the  edge  ; but,  becoming  prominent,  it  receives  a 
truncation,  and  becomes  a definite  fillet  on  the  face  of  the  roll. 
Not  yet  to  be  checked,  it  pushes  forward  until  the  roll  itself  be- 
comes subordinate  to  it,  and  is  finally  lost  in  a slight  swell  upon 
its  sides,  while  the  concavities  have  all  the  time  been  deepen- 
ing and  enlarging  behind  it,  until,  from  a succession  of  square 
or  cylindrical  masses,  the  whole  moulding  has  become  a series 
of  concavities  edged  by  delicate  fillets,  upon  which  (sharp  lines 
of  light,  observe)  the  eye  exclusively  rests.  While  this  has 
been  taking  place,  a similar,  though  less  total,  change  has 
affected  the  flowerwork  itself.  In  Plate  I.  fig.  2 (a),  I have 
given  two  from  the  transepts  of  Bouen.  It  will  be  observed 
how  absolutely  the  eye  rests  on  the  forms  of  the  leaves,  and 
on  the  three  berries  in  the  angle,  being  in  light  exactly  what 
the  trefoil  is  in  darkness.  These  mouldings  nearly  adhere  to 
the  stone  ; and  are  very  slightly,  though  sharply,  undercut. 
In  process  of  time,  the  attention  of  the  architect,  instead  of 
resting  on  the  leaves,  went  to  the  stalks.  These  latter  were 
elongated  ( b , from  the  south  door  of  St.  Lo) ; and  to  exhibit 
them  better,  the  deep  concavity  was  cut  behind,  so  as  to  throw 
them  out  in  lines  of  light.  The  system  was  carried  out  into 
continually  increasing  intricacy,  until,  in  the  transepts  of 
Beauvais,  we  have  brackets  and  flamboyant  traceries,  com- 
posed of  twigs  without  any  leaves  at  all.  This,  hownver,  is  a 
partial,  though  a sufficiently  characteristic,  caprice,  the  leaf 
being  never  generally  banished,  and  in  the  mouldings  round 
those  same  doors,  beautifully  managed,  but  itself  rendered 
liny  by  bold  marking  of  its  ribs  and  veins,  and  by  turning  up, 
and  crisping  its  edges,  large  intermediate  spaces  being  always 
left  to  be  occupied  by  intertwining  stems  (c,  from  Caudebec). 


THE  LAMP  OF  PO  WER. 


9? 


The  trefoil  of  light  formed  by  berries  or  acorns,  though  di- 
minished in  value,  was  never  lost  up  to  the  last  period  of  living 
Gothic. 

XXIII.  It  is  interesting  to  follow  into  its  many  ramifica- 
tions, the  influence  of  the  corrupting  principle  ; but  we  have 
seen  enough  of  it  to  enable  us  to  draw  our  practical  conclusion 
— a conclusion  a thousand  times  felt  and  reiterated  in  the  ex- 
perience and  advice  of  every  practised  artist,  but  never  often 
enough  repeated,  never  profoundly  enough  felt.  Of  composi- 
tion and  invention  much  has  been  written,  it  seems  to  me 
vainly,  for  men  cannot  be  taught  to  compose  or  to  invent ; of 
these,  the  highest  elements  of  Power  in  architecture,  I do  not, 
therefore,  speak ; nor,  here,  of  that  peculiar  restraint  in  the 
imitation  of  natural  forms,  which  constitutes  the  dignity  of 
even  the  most  luxuriant  work  of  the  great  periods.  Of  this 
restraint  I shall  say  a word  or  two  in  the  next  Chapter ; press- 
ing now  only  the  conclusion,  as  practically  useful  as  it  is  cer- 
tain, that  the  relative  majesty  of  buildings  depends  more  on 
the  weight  and  vigor  of  their  masses  than  on  any  other  attri- 
bute of  their  design  : mas3  of  everything,  of  bulk,  of  light,  of 
darkness,  of  color,  not  mere  sum  of  any  of  these,  but  breadth 
of  them  ; not  broken  light,  nor  scattered  darkness,  nor  divided 
weight,  but  solid  stone,  broad  sunshine,  starless  shade.  Time 
would  fail  me  altogether,  if  I attempted  to  follow  out  the  range 
of  the  principle  ; there  is  not  a feature,  liowrever  apparently 
trifling,  to  which  it  cannot  give  power.  The  wooden  fillings 
of  belfry  lights,  necessary  to  protect  their  interiors  from  rain, 
are  in  England  usually  divided  into  a number  of  neatly  exe- 
cuted cross-bars,  like  those  of  Venetian  blinds,  which,  of 
course,  become  as  conspicuous  in  their  sharpness  as  they  are 
uninteresting  in  their  precise  carpentry,  multiplying,  more- 
over, the  horizontal  lines  which  directly  contradict  those  of 
the  architecture.  Abroad,  such  necessities  are  met  by  three 
or  four  downright  penthouse  roofs,  reaching  each  from  within 
the  window  to  the  outside  shafts  of  its  mouldings  ; instead  of 
the  horrible  row  of  ruled  lines,  the  space  is  thus  divided  into 
four  or  five  grand  masses  of  shadow,  with  grey  slopes  of  roof 
above,  bent  or  yielding  into  all  kinds  of  delicious  swells  and 
7 


98 


THE  LAMP  OF  POWER. 


curves,  and  covered  with  warm  tones  of  moss  and  lichen.  Very 
often  the  thing  is  more  delightful  than  the  stone-work  itself, 
and  all  because  it  is  broad,  dark,  and  simple.  It  matters  not 
how  clumsy,  how  common,  the  means  are,  that  get  weight  and 
shadow — sloping  roof,  jutting  porch,  projecting  balcony,  hol- 
low niche,  massy  gargoyle,  frowning  parapet ; get  but  gloom 
and  simplicity,  and  all  good  things  will  follow  in  their  place 
and  time  ; do  but  design  with  the  owl’s  eyes  first,  and  you  will 
gain  the  falcon’s  afterwards. 

XXIV.  I am  grieved  to  have  to  insist  upon  what  seems  so 
simple  ; it  looks  trite  and  commonplace  wdien  it  is  written, 
but  pardon  me  this  : for  it  is  anything  but  an  accepted  or  un- 
derstood principle  in  practice,  and  the  less  excusably  forgot- 
ten, because  it  is,  of  all  the  great  and  true  laws  of  art,  the 
easiest  to  obey.  The  executive  facility  of  complying  with  its 
demands  cannot  be  too  earnestly,  too  frankly  asserted.  There 
ate  not  five  men  in  the  kingdom  who  could  compose,  not 
twenty  who  could  cut,  the  foliage  with  which  the  windows  of 
Or  San  Michele  are  adorned  ; but  there  is  many  a village 
clergyman  who  could  invent  and  dispose  its  black  openings, 
and  not  a village  mason  who  could  not  cut  them.  Lay  a few 
clover  or  wood-roof  leaves  on  white  paper,  and  a little  alterar 
tion  in  their  positions  will  suggest  figures  which,  cut  boldly 
through  a slab  of  marble,  would  be  worth  more  window  tra- 
ceries than  an  architect  could  draw  in  a summer’s  day.  There 
are  few  men  in  the  world  who  could  design  a Greek  capital ; 
there  are  few  who  could  not  produce  some  vigor  of  effect  with 
leaf  designs  on  Byzantine  block  : few  who  could  design  a Pal- 
ladian  front,  or  a flamboyant  pediment ; many  who  could 
build  a square  mass  like  the  Strozzi  palace.  But  I know  not 
how  it  is,  unless  that  our  English  hearts  have  more  oak  than 
stone  in  them,  and  have  more  filial  sympathy  with  acorns  than 
Alps  ; but  all  that  we  do  is  small  and  mean,  if  not  worse — 
thin,  and  wasted,  and  unsubstantial.  It  is  not  modem  work 
only  ; we  have  built  like  frogs  and  mice  since  the  thirteenth 
century  (except  only  in  our  castles).  What  a contrast  be- 
tween the  pitiful  little  pigeon-holes  which  stand  for  doors  in 
the  east  front  of  Salisbury,  looking  like  the  entrances  to  a bee* 


THE  LAMP  OF  POWER 


99 


Live  or  a wasp’s  nest,  and  the  soaring  arches  and  kingly 
crowning  of  the  gates  of  Abbeville,  Rouen,  and  Rheims,  or  the 
rock-hewn  piers  of  Chartres,  or  the  dark  and  vaulted  porches 
and  writhed  pillars  of  Verona  ! Of  domestic  architecture 
what  need  is  there  to  speak  ? How  small,  how  cramped,  how 
poor,  how  miserable  in  its  petty  neatness  is  our  best ! how 
beneath  the  mark  of  attack,  and  the  level  of  contempt,  that 
which  is  common  with  us  ! What  a strange  sense  of  for- 
malised deformity,  of  shrivelled  precision,  of  starved  accu- 
racy, of  minute  misanthropy  have  we,  as  we  leave  even  the 
rude  streets  of  Picardy  for  the  market  towns  of  Kent ! Until 
that  street  architecture  of  ours  is  bettered,  until  we  give  it 
some  size  and  boldness,  until  we  give  our  windows  recess, 
and  our  walls  thickness,  I know  not  how  we  can  blame  our 
architects  for  their  feebleness  in  more  important  work  ; their 
eyes  are  inured  to  narrowness  and  slightness  : can  we  expect 
them  at  a word  to  conceive  and  deal  with  breadth  and  solidity  ? 
They  ought  not  to  live  in  our  cities  ; there  is  that  in  their 
miserable  walls  which  bricks  up  to  death  men’s  imaginations, 
as  surely  as  ever  perished  forsworn  nun.  An  architect  should 
live  as  little  in  cities  as  a painter.  Send  him  to  our  hills,  and 
let  him  study  there  what  nature  understands  by  a buttress, 
and  what  by  a dome.  There  was  something  in  the  old  power 
of  architecture,  which  it  had  from  the  recluse  more  than  from 
the  citizen.  The  buildings  of  which  I have  spoken  with  chief 
praise,  rose,  indeed,  out  of  the  war  of  the  piazza,  and  above 
the  fury  of  the  populace  : and  Heaven  forbid  that  for  such 
cause  we  should  ever  have  to  lay  a larger  stone,  or  rivet  a 
firmer  bar,  in  our  England  ! But  -we  have  other  sources  of 
power,  in  the  imagery  of  our  iron  coasts  and  azure  hills  ; of 
power  more  pure,  nor  less  serene,  than  that  of  the  hermit 
spirit  which  once  lighted  with  white  lines  of  cloisters  the 
glades  of  the  Alpine  pine,  and  raised  into  ordered  spires  the 
wild  rocks  of  the  Norman  sea  ; which  gave  to  the  temple  gate 
the  depth  and  darkness  of  Elijah’s  Horeb  cave  ; and  lifted, 
out  of  the  populous  city,  grey  cliffs  of  lonely  stone,  into  the 
midst  of  sailing  birds  and  silent  air. 


THE  LAMP  OF  BEAUTY. 


too 


CHAPTER  IV. 

THE  LAMP  OP  BEAUTY. 

I.  It  was  stated,  in  the  outset  of  the  preceding  chapter, 
that  the  value  of  architecture  depended  on  two  distinct  char* 
acters  : the  one,  the  impression  it  receives  from  human  power ; 
the  other,  the  image  it  hears  of  the  natural  creation.  I have 
endeavored  to  show  in  what  manner  its  majesty  was  attribu- 
table to  a sympathy  with  the  effort  and  trouble  of  human  life 
(a  sympathy  as  distinctly  perceived  in  the  gloom  and  mystery 
of  form,  as  it  is  in  the  melancholy  tones  of  sounds).  I desire 
now  to  trace  that  happier  element  of  its  excellence,  consisting 
in  a noble  rendering  of  images  of  Beauty,  derived  chiefly  from 
the  external  appearances  of  organic  nature. 

It  is  irrelevant  to  our  present  purpose  to  enter  into  any  in- 
quiry respecting  the  essential  causes  of  impressions  of  beauty. 
I have  partly  expressed  my  thoughts  on  this  matter  in  a pre 
vious  work,  and  I hope  to  develope  them  hereafter.  But  since 
all  such  inquiries  can  only  be  founded  on  the  ordinary  under- 
standing of  what  is  meant  by  the  term  Beauty,  and  since  they 
presume  that  the  feeling  of  mankind  on  this  subject  is  univer- 
sal and  instinctive,  I shall  base  my  present  investigation  on 
this  assumption  ; and  only  asserting  that  to  be  beautiful  which 
I believe  will  be  granted  me  to  be  so  without  dispute,  I would 
endeavor  shortly  to  trace  the  manner  in  which  this  element  of 
delight  is  to  be  best  engrafted  upon  architectural  design,  what 
are  the  purest  sources  from  which  it  is  to  be  derived,  and  what 
the  errors  to  be  avoided  in  its  pursuit. 

II.  It  will  be  thought  that  I have  somewhat  rashly  limited 
the  elements  of  architectural  beauty  to  imitative  forms.  I do 
not  mean  to  assert  that  every  arrangement  of  line  is  directly 
suggested  by  a natural  object ; but  that  all  beautiful  lines  are 
adaptations  of  those  which  are  commonest  in  the  external  ere* 
ation  ; that  in  proportion  to  the  richness  of  their  association, 
the  resemblance  to  natural  work,  as  a type  and  help,  must  be 
more  closely  attempted,  and  more  clearly  seen ; and  that  be- 


THE  LAMP  OF  BEAUTY. 


101 


yond  a certain  point,  and  that  a very  low  one,  man  cannot  ad- 
vance in  the  invention  of  beauty,  without  directly  imitating 
natural  form.  Thus,  in  the  Doric  temple,  the  triglyph  and 
cornice  are  unimitative  ; or  imitative  only  of  artificial  cuttings 
of  wood.  No  one  would  call  these  members  beautiful.  Their 
influence  over  us  is  in  their  severity  and  simplicity.  The 
fluting  of  the  column,  which  I doubt  not  was  the  Greek  sym- 
bol of  the  bark  of  the  tree,  was  imitative  in  its  origin,  and 
feebly  resembled  many  caniculated  organic  structures.  Beauty 
is  instantly  felt  in  it,  but  of  a low  order.  The  decoration 
proper  was  sought  in  the  true  forms  of  organic  life,  and  those 
chiefly  human.  Again  : the  Doric  capital  was  unimitative ; 
but  all  the  beauty  it  had  was  dependent  on  the  precision  of 
its  ovolo,  a natural  curve  of  the  most  frequent  occurrence. 
The  Ionic  capital  (to  my  mind,  as  an  architectural  invention, 
exceedingly  base)  nevertheless  depended  for  all  the  beauty 
that  it  had  on  its  adoption  of  a spiral  line,  perhaps  the  com- 
monest of  all  that  characterise  the  inferior  orders  of  animal 
organism  and  habitation.  Farther  progress  could  not  be 
made  without  a direct  imitation  of  the  acanthus  leaf. 

Again  : the  Romanesque  arch  is  beautiful  as  an  abstract 
line.  Its  type  is  always  before  us  in  that  of  the  apparent 
vault  of  heaven,  and  horizon  of  the  earth.  The  cylindrical 
pillar  is  always  beautiful,  for  God  has  so  moulded  the  stem  of 
every  tree  that  it  is  pleasant  to  the  c yes.  The  pointed  arch 
is  beautiful ; it  is  the  termination  of  every  leaf  that  shakes  in 
summer  wind,  and  its  most  fortunate  associations  are  directly 
borrowed  from  the  trefoiled  grass  of  tire  field,  or  from  the 
stars  of  its  flowers.  Further  than  this,  man’s  invention  could 
not  reach  without  frank  imitation.  His  next  step  was  to 
gather  the  flowers  themselves,  and  wreathe  them  in  his  capi- 
tals. 

HI.  Now,  I would  insist  especially  on  the  fact,  of  which  I 
doubt  not  that  further  illustrations  will  occur  to  the  mind  of 
every  reader,  that  all  most  lovely  forms  and  thoughts  are  di- 
rectly taken  from  natural  objects  ; because  I would  fain  be 
allowed  to  assume  also  the  converse  of  this,  namely,  that 
forms  which  are  not  taken  from  natural  objects  must  be  ugly. 


102 


THE  LAMP  OF  BEAUTY. 


I know  this  is  a bold  assumption  ; but  as  I have  not  space  t(? 
reason  out  the  points  wherein  essential  beauty  of  form  con- 
sists, that  being  far  too  serious  a work  to  be  undertaken  in  a 
bye  way,  I have  no  other  resource  than  to  use  this  accidental 
mark  or  test  of  beauty,  of  whose  truth  the  considerations 
which  I hope  hereafter  to  lay  before  the  reader  may  assure 
him.  I say  an  accidental  mark,  since  forms  are  not  beautiful 
because  they  are  copied  from  nature  ; only  it  is  out  of  the 
power  of  man  to  conceive  beauty  without  her  aid.  I believe 
the  reader  will  grant  me  this,  even  from  the  examples  above 
advanced ; the  degree  of  confidence  with  which  it  is  granted 
must  attach  also  to  his  acceptance  of  the  conclusions  which 
will  follow  from  it ; but  if  it  be  granted  frankly,  it  will  enable 
me  to  determine  a matter  of  very  essential  importance,  name- 
ly, what  is  or  is  not  ornament.  For  there  are  many  forms  of 
so-called  decoration  in  architecture,  habitual,  and  received, 
therefore,  with  approval,  or  at  all  events  without  any  venture 
at  expression  or  dislike,  which  I have  no  hesitation  in  assert- 
ing to  be  not  ornament  at  all,  but  to  be  ugly  things,  the  ex- 
pense of  which  ought  in  truth  to  be  set  down  in  the  archi- 
tect’s contract,  as  “For  Monstrification.”  I believe  that  we 
regard  these  customary  deformities  with  a savage  compla- 
cency, as  an  Indian  does  liis  flesh  patterns  and  paint  (all  na- 
tions being  in  certain  degrees  and  senses  savage).  I believe 
that  I can  prove  them  to  be  monstrous,  and  I hope  hereafter 
to  do  so  conclusively ; but,  meantime,  I can  allege  in  defence 
of  my  persuasion  nothing  but  this  fact  of  their  being  unnat- 
ural, to  which  the  reader  must  attach  such  weight  as  he 
thinks  it  deserves.  There  is,  however,  a peculiar  difficulty  in 
using  this  proof  ; it  requires  the  writer  to  assume,  very  im- 
pertinently, that  nothing  is  natural  but  what  he  has  seen  or 
supposes  to  exist.  I would  not  do  this  ; for  I suppose  there 
is  no  conceivable  form  or  grouping  of  forms  but  in  some  part 
of  the  universe  an  example  of  it  may  be  found.  But  I think  I 
am  justified  in  considering  those  forms  to  be  most  natural 
which  are  most  frequent ; or,  rather,  that  on  the  shapes  which 
in  the  every-day  world  are  familiar  to  the  eyes  of  men,  God 
lias  stamped  those  characters  of  beauty  which  He  has  made 


TEE  LAMP  OF  BEAUTY. 


103 


it  man’s  nature  to  love  ; while  in  certain  exceptional  forms 
He  has  shown  that  the  adoption  of  the  others  was  not  a 
matter  of  necessity,  but  part  of  the  adjusted  harmony  of  crea- 
tion. I believe  that  thus  we  may  reason  from  Frequency  to 
Beauty  and  vice  versd  ; that  knowing  a thing  to  be  frequent, 
we  may  assume  it  to  be  beautiful ; and  assume  that  which  is 
most  frequent  to  be  most  beautiful : I mean,  of  course,  visibly 
frequent ; for  the  forms  of  things  which  are  hidden  in  caverns 
of  the  earth,  or  in  the  anatomy  of  animal  frames,  are  evidently 
not  intended  by  their  Maker  to  bear  the  habitual  gaze  of  man. 
And,  again,  by  frequency  I mean  that  limited  and  isolated 
frequency  which  is  characteristic  of  all  perfection  ; not  mere 
multitude  : as  a rose  is  a common  flower,  but  yet  there  are 
not  so  many  roses  on  the  tree  as  there  are  leaves.  In  this  re- 
spect Nature  is  sparing  of  her  highest,  and  lavish  of  her  less, 
beauty  ; but  I call  the  flower  as  frequent  as  the  leaf,  because, 
each  in  its  allotted  quantity,  where  the  one  is,  there  will  ordi- 
narily be  the  other. 

IV.  The  first  so-called  ornament,  then,  which  I would  at- 
tack is  that  Greek  fret,  now,  I believe,  usually  known  by  the 
Italian  name  Guilloche,  which  is  exactly  a case  in  point.  It 
so  happens  that  in  crystals  of  bismuth  formed  by  the  unagi- 
tated cooling  of  the  melted  metal,  there  occurs  a natural  re- 
semblance of  it  almost  perfect.  But  crystals  of  bismuth  not 
only  are  of  unusual  occurrence  in  every-day  life,  but  their 
form  is,  as  far  as  I know,  unique  among  minerals  ; and  not 
only  unique,  but  only  attainable  by  an  artificial  process,  the 
metal  itself  never  being  found  pure.  I do  not  remember  any 
other  substance  or  arrangement  which  presents  a resemblance 
to  this  Greek  ornament ; and  I think  that  I may  trust  my  re- 
membrance as  including  most  of  the  arrangements  which 
occur  in  the  outward  forms  of  common  and  familiar  things. 
On  this  ground,  then,  I allege  that  ornament  to  be  ugly  ; or, 
in  the  literal  sense  of  the  word,  monstrous  ; different  from 
anything  which  it  is  the  nature  of  man  to  admire : and  I 
think  an  uncarved  fillet  or  plinth  infinitely  preferable  to  one 
covered  with  this  vile  concatenation  of  straight  lines  : unless 
indeed  it  be  employed  as  a foil  to  a true  ornament,  which  it 


104 


THE  LAMP  OF  BEAUT Y. 


may,  perhaps,  sometimes  with  advantage  ; or  excessively  small* 
as  it  occurs  on  coins,  the  harshness  of  its  arrangement  being 
less  perceived. 

V.  Often  in  association  with  this  horrible  design  w7e  find, 
in  Greek  works,  one  which  is  as  beautiful  as  this  is  painful — • 
that  egg  and  dart  moulding,  whose  perfection  in  its  place  and 
•way,  has  never  been  surpassed.  And  why  is  this  ? Simply 
because  the  form  of  which  it  is  chiefly  composed  is  one  not 
only  familiar  to  us  in  the  soft  housing  of  the  bird’s  nest,  but 
happens  to  be  that  of  nearly  eveiy  pebble  that  rolls  and  mur- 
murs under  the  surf  of  the  sea,  on  all  its  endless  shore.  And 
with  that  a peculiar  accuracy  ; for  the  mass  which  bears  the 
light  in  this  moulding  is  not  in  good  Greek  work,  as  in  the 
frieze  of  the  Erechtheum,  merely  of  the  shape  of  an  egg.  It 
is  flattened  on  the  upper  surface,  with  a delicacy  and  keen 
sense  of  variety  in  the  curve  which  it  is  impossible  too  highly 
to  praise,  attaining  exactly  that  flattened,  imperfect  oval, 
which,  in  nine  cases  out  of  ten,  will  be  the  form  of  the  pebble 
lifted  at  random  from  the  rolled  beach.  Leave  out  this  flat- 
ness, and  the  moulding  is  vulgar  instantly.  It  is  singular 
also  that  the  insertion  of  this  rounded  form  in  the  hollow 
recess  has  a painted  type  in  the  plumage  of  the  Argus  pheas- 
ant, the  eyes  of  whose  feathers  are  so  shaded  as  exactly  to 
represent  an  oval  form  placed  in  a hollow. 

VI.  It  will  evidently  follow,  upon  our  application  of  this 
test  of  natural  resemblance,  that  we  shall  at  once  conclude 
that  all  perfectly  beautiful  forms  must  be  composed  of  curves ; 
since  there  is  hardly  any  common  natural  form  in  which  it  is 
possible  to  discover  a straight  line.  Nevertheless,  Architect- 
ure, having  necessarily  to  deal  with  straight  lines  essential 
to  its  purposes  in  many  instances  and  to  the  expression  of  its 
power  in  others,  must  frequently  be  content  with  that  meas- 
ure of  beauty  which  is  consistent  with  such  primal  forms  ; 
and  we  may  presume  that  utmost  measure  of  beauty  to  have 
been  attained  when  the  arrangements  of  such  hues  are  con- 
sistent with  the  most  frequent  natural  groupings  of  them  we 
can  discover,  although,  to  find  right  lines  in  nature  at  all,  we 
may  be  compelled  to  do  violence  to  her  finished  work,  break 


TEE  LAMP  OF  BEAUTY. 


105 


through  the  sculptured  and  colored  surfaces  of  her  crags,  and 
examine  the  processes  of  their  crystallisation. 

VII.  I have  just  convicted  the  Greek  fret  of  ugliness,  be- 
cause it  has  no  precedent  to  allege  for  its  arrangement  except 
an  artificial  form  of  a rare  metal.  Let  us  bring  into  court  an 
ornament  of  Lombard  architects,  Plate  XII.,  fig.  7,  as  exclu- 
sively composed  of  right  lines  as  the  other,  only,  observe,  with 
the  noble  element  of  shadow  added.  This  ornament,  taken 
from  the  front  of  the  Cathedral  of  Pisa,  is  universal  through- 
out the  Lombard  churches  of  Pisa,  Lucca,  Pistoja,  and  Flo- 
rence ; and  it  will  be  a grave  stain  upon  them  if  it  cannot 
be  defended.  Its  first  apology  for  itself,  made  in  a hurry, 
sounds  marvellously  like  the  Greek  one,  and  highly  dubious. 
It  says  that  its  terminal  contour  is  the  very  image  of  a care- 
fully prepared  artificial  crystal  of  common  salt.  Salt  being, 
however,  a substance  considerably  more  familiar  to  us  than 
bismuth,  the  chances  are  somewhat  in  favor  of  the  accused 
Lombard  ornament  already.  But  it  has  more  to  say  for  itself, 
and  more  to  the  purpose  ; namely,  that  its  main  outline  is  one 
not  only  of  natural  crystallisation,  but  among  the  very  first  and 
commonest  of  crystalline  forms,  being  the  primal  condition  of 
the  occurrence  of  the  oxides  of  iron,  copper,  and  tin,  of  the 
sulphurets  of  iron  and  lead,  of  fluor  spar,  &c.  ; and  that  those 
projecting  forms  in  its  surface  represent  the  conditions  of 
structure  which  effect  the  change  into  another  relative  and 
equally  common  crystalline  form,  the  cube.  This  is  quite 
enough.  We  may  rest  assured  it  is  as  good  a combination  of 
such  simple  right  lines  as  can  be  put  together,  and  gracefully 
fitted  for  every  place  in  which  such  lines  are  necessary. 

Yin.  The  next  ornament  whose  cause  I would  try  is  that 
of  our  Tudor  work,  the  portcullis.  Reticulation  is  common 
enough  in  natural  form,  and  very  beautiful ; but  it  is  either  of 
the  most  delicate  and  gauzy  texture,  or  of  variously  sized 
meshes  and  undulating  lines.  There  is  no  family  relation  be- 
tween portcullis  and  cobwebs  or  beetles’  wings  ; something 
like  it,  perhaps,  may  be  found  in  some  kinds  of  crocodile  ar- 
mor and  on  the  backs  of  the  Northern  divers,  but  always 
beautifully  varied  in  size  of  mesh.  There  is  a dignity  in  the 


106 


TEE  LAMP  OF  BEAUTY. 


tiling  itself,  if  its  size  were  exhibited,  and  the  shade  given 
through  its  bars ; but  even  these  merits  are  taken  away  in  the 
Tudor  diminution  of  it,  set  on  a solid  surface.  It  has  not  a 
single  syllable,  I believe,  to  say  in  its  defence.  It  is  another 
monster,  absolutely  and  unmitigatedly  frightful.  All  that 
carving  on  Henry  the  Seventh’s  Chapel  simply  deforms  the 
stones  of  it. 

In  the  same  clause  with  the  portcullis,  we  may  condemn  all 
heraldic  decoration,  so  far  as  beauty  is  its  object  Its  pride 
and  significance  have  their  proper  place,  fitly  occurring  in 
prominent  parts  of  the  building,  as  over  its  gates  ; and  allow- 
ably in  places  where  its  legendary  may  be  plainly  read,  as  in 
painted  windows,  bosses  of  ceilings,  &c.  And  sometimes,  of 
course,  the  forms  wThich  it  presents  may  be  beautiful,  as  of 
animals,  or  simple  symbols  like  the  fleur-de-lis  ; but,  for  the 
most  part,  heraldic  similitudes  and  arrangements  are  so  pro- 
fessedly and  pointedly  unnatural,  that  it  would  be  difficult  to 
invent  anything  uglier ; and  the  use  of  them  as  a repeated 
decoration  will  utterly  destroy  both  the  power  and  beauty  of 
any  building.  Common  sense  and  courtesy  also  forbid  their 
repetition.  It  is  right  to  tell  those  who  enter  your  doors  that 
you  are  such  a one,  and  of  such  a rank  ; but  to  tell  it  to  them 
again  and  again,  wherever  they  turn,  becomes  soon  imperti- 
nence, and  at  last  folly.  Let,  therefore,  the  entire  bearings 
occur  in  few  places,  and  these  not  considered  as  an  ornament, 
but  as  an  inscription  ; and  for  frequent  appliance,  let  any  sin- 
gle and  fair  symbol  be  chosen  out  of  them.  Thus  we  may 
multiply  as  much  as  wTe  choose  the  French  fleur-de-lis,  or  the 
Florentine  giglio  bianco,  or  the  English  rose  ; but  we  must 
not  multiply  a King’s  arms. 

IX.  It  will  also  follow",  from  these  considerations,  that  if 
any  one  part  of  heraldic  decoration  be  worse  than  another,  it 
is  the  motto  ; since,  of  all  things  unlike  nature,  the  forms  of 
letters  are,  perhaps,  the  most  so.  Even  graphic  tellurium  and 
felspar  look,  at  their  clearest,  anything  but  legible.  All  let- 
ters are,  therefore,  to  be  considered  as  frightful  things,  and 
to  be  endured  only  upon  occasion  ; that  is  to  say,  in  places 
where  the  sense  of  the  inscription  is  of  more  importance  than 


TUE  LAMP  OF  BEAUTY. 


107 


external  ornament.  Inscriptions  in  churches,  in  rooms,  and 
on  pictures,  are  often  desirable,  but  they  are  not  to  be  con- 
sidered as  architectural  or  pictorial  ornaments  : they  are,  on 
the  contrary,  obstinate  offences  to  the  eye,  not  to  be  suffered 
except  when  their  intellectual  office  introduces  them.  Place 
them,  therefore,  where  they  will  be  read,  and  there  only ; and 
let  them  be  plainly  written,  and  not  turned  upside  down,  nor 
wrong  end  first.  It  is  an  ill  sacrifice  to  beauty  to  make  that 
illegible  whose  only  merit  is  in  its  sense.  Write  it  as  you 
would  speak  it,  simply  ; and  do  not  draw  the  eye  to  it  when 
it  would  fain  rest  elsewhere,  nor  recommend  your  sentence 
by  anything  but  a little  openness  of  place  and  architectural 
silence  about  it..  Write  the  Commandments  on  the  Church 
walls  where  they  may  be  plainly  seen,  but  do  not  put  a dash 
and  a tail  to  every  letter  ; and  remember  that  you  are  an  ar- 
chitect, not  a writing  master. 

X.  Inscriptions  appear  sometimes  to  be  introduced  for  the 
sake  of  the  scroll  on  which  they  are  written  ; and  in  late  and 
modern  painted  glass,  as  well  as  in  architecture,  these  scrolls 
are  flourished  and  turned  hither  and  thither  as  if  they  were 
ornamental.  Ribands  occur  frequently  in  arabesques, — in 
some  of  a high  order,  too, — tying  up  flowers,  or  flitting  in  and 
out  among  the  fixed  forms.  Is  there  anything  like  ribands 
in  nature  ? It  might  be  thought  that  grass  and  sea-weed 
afforded  apologetic  types.  They  do  not.  There  is  a wide 
difference  between  their  structure  and  that  of  a riband.  They 
have  a skeleton,  an  anatomy,  a central  rib,  or  fibre,  or  frame- 
work of  some  kind  or  another,  which  has  a beginning  and  an 
end,  a root  and  head,  and  whose  make  and  strength  effects 
every  direction  of  their  motion,  and  every  line  of  their  form. 
The  loosest  weed  that  drifts  and  waves  under  the  heaving  of 
the  sea,  or  hangs  heavily  on  the  brown  and  slippery  shore, 
has  a marked  strength,  structure,  elasticity,  gradation  of  sub- 
stance ; its  extremities  are  more  finely  fibred  than  its  centre, 
its  centre  than  its  root ; every  fork  of  its  ramification  is  meas- 
ured and  proportioned  ; every  wave  of  its  languid  lines  is  love. 
It  has  its  allotted  size,  and  place,  and  function  ; it  is  a spe- 
cific creature.  What  is  there  like  this  in  a riband  ? It  has 


108 


THE  LAMP  OF  BEAUTY, \ 


no  structure  : it  is  a succession  of  cut  threads  all  alike ; it 
has  no  skeleton,  no  make,  no  form,  no  size,  no  will  of  its  own. 
You  cut  it  and  crush  it  into  what  you  will.  It  has  no  strength, 
no  languor.  It  cannot  fall  into  a single  graceful  form.  It 
cannot  wave,  in  the  true  sense,  but  only  flutter : it  cannot 
bend,  in  the  true  sense,  but  only  turn  and  be  wrinkled.  It 
is  a vile  thing  ; it  spoils  all  that  is  near  its  wretched  film  of 
an  existence.  Never  use  it.  Let  the  flowers  come  loose  if 
they  cannot  keep  together  without  being  tied  ; leave  the  sen- 
tence unwritten  if  you  cannot  write  it  on  a tablet  or  book, 
or  plain  roll  of  paper.  I know  what  authority  there  is  against 
me.  I remember  the  scrolls  of  Perugino’s  angels,  and  the 
ribands  of  Raphael's  arabesques,  and  of  Ghiberti’s  glorious 
bronze  flowers  : no  matter  ; they  are  every  one  of  them  rices 
and  uglinesses.  Eaphael  usually  felt  this,  and  used  an  honest 
and  rational  tablet,  as  in  the  Madonna  di  Fuligno.  I do  not 
say  there  is  any  type  of  such  tablets  in  nature,  but  all  the 
difference  lies  in  the  fact  that  the  tablet  is  not  considered  as 
an  ornament,  and  the  riband,  or  flying  scroll,  is.  The  tablet, 
as  in  Albert  Durer’s  Adam  and  Eve,  is  introduced  for  the  sake 
of  the  writing,  understood  and  allowed  as  an  ugly  but  neces- 
sary interruption.  The  scroll  is  extended  as  an  ornamental 
form,  which  it  is  not,  nor  ever  can  be. 

XI.  But  it  will  be  said  that  all  this  want  of  organisation 
and  form  might  be  affirmed  of  drapery  also,  and  that  this 
latter  is  a noble  subject  of  sculpture.  By  no  means.  When 
was  drapery  a subject  of  sculpture  by  itself,  except  in  the 
form  of  a handkerchief  on  urns  in  the  seventeenth  century  and 
in  some  of  the  baser  scenic  Italian  decorations  ? Drapery,  as 
such,  is  always  ignoble  ; it  becomes  a subject  of  interest  only 
by  the  colors  it  bears,  and  the  impressions  which  it  receives 
from  some  foreign  form  or  force.  All  noble  draperies,  either 
in  painting  or  sculpture  (color  and  texture  being  at  present 
out  of  our  consideration),  have,  so  far  as  they  are  anything 
more  than  necessities,  one  of  two  great  functions ; they  are 
the  exponents  of  motion  and  of  gravitation.  They  are  the 
most  valuable  means  of  expressing  past  as  wrell  as  present 
motion  in  the  figure,  and  they  are  almost  the  only  means  of 


THE  LAMP  OF  BEAUTY. 


109 


indicating  to  the  eye  the  force  of  gravity  which  resists  such 
motion.  The  Greeks  used  drapery  in  sculpture  for  the  most 
part  as  an  ugly  necessity,  but  availed  themselves  of  it  gladly 
in  all  representation  of  action,  exaggerating  the  arrangements 
of  it  which  express  lightness  in  the  material,  and  follow  gest- 
ure in  the  person.  The  Christian  sculptors,  caring  little  for 
the  body,  or  disliking  it,  and  depending  exclusively  on  the 
countenance,  received  drapery  at  first  contentedly  as  a veil, 
but  soon  perceived  a capacity  of  expression  in  it  which  the 
Greek  had  not  seen  or  had  despised.  The  principal  element 
of  this  expression  was  the  entire  removal  of  agitation  from 
what  was  so  pre-eminently  capable  of  being  agitated.  It  fell 
from  their  human  forms  plumb  down,  sweeping  the  ground 
heavily,  and  concealing  the  feet  ; while  the  Greek  drapery 
was  often  blown  away  from  the  thigh.  The  thick  and  coarse 
stuff’s  of  the  monkish  dresses,  so  absolutely  opposed  to  the 
thin  and  gauzy  web  of  antique  material;1  suggested  simplicity 
of  division  as  well  as  weight  of  fall.  There  was  no  crushing 
nor  subdividing  them.  And  thus  the  drapery  gradually  came 
to  represent  the  spirit  of  repose  as  it  before  had  of  motion, 
repose  saintly  and  severe.  The  wind  had  no  power  upon  the 
garment,  as  the  passion  none  upon  the  soul ; and  the  motion 
of  the  figure  only  bent  into  a softer  line  the  stillness  of  the 
falling  veil,  followed  by  it  like  a slow  cloud  by  drooping  rain  : 
only  in  links  of  lighter  undulation  it  followed  the  dances  of 
the  angels. 

Thus  treated,  drapery  is  indeed  noble  ; but  it  is  as  an  ex- 
ponent of  other  and  higher  things.  As  that  of  gravitation,  it 
has  especial  majesty,  being  literally  the  only  means  we  have 
of  fully  representing  this  mysterious  natural  force  of  earth  (for 
falling  water  is  less  passive  and  less  defined  in  its  lines).  So, 
again,  in  sails  it  is  beautiful  because  it  receives  the  forms  of 
solid  curved  surface,  and  expresses  the  force  of  another  in- 
visible element.  But  drapery  trusted  to  its  own  merits,  and 
given  for  its  own  sake, — drapery  like  that  of  Carlo  Dolci  and 
the  Caraccis, — is  always  base. 

XII.  Closely  connected  with  the  abuse  of  scrolls  and  bands, 
is  that  of  garlands  and  festoons  of  flowers  as  an  architectural 


110 


TEE  LAMP  OF  BEAUTY. 


decoration,  for  unnatural  arrangements  are  just  as  ugly  as  un- 
natural forms  ; and  architecture,  in  borrowing  the  objects  of 
nature,  is  bound  to  place  them,  as  far  as  may  be  in  her  power, 
in  such  associations  as  may  befit  and  express  their  origin.  She 
is  not  to  imitate  directly  the  natural  arrangement ; she  is  not 
to  carve  irregular  stems  of  ivy  up  her  columns  to  account  for 
the  leaves  at  the  top,  but  she  is  nevertheless  to  place  her  most 
exuberant  vegetable  ornament  just  where  Nature  would  have 
placed  it,  and  to  give  some  indication  of  that  radical  and  con- 
nected structure  which  Nature  would  have  given  it.  Thus 
the  Corinthian  capital  is  beautiful,  because  it  expands  under 
the  abacus  just  as  Nature  would  have  expanded  it  ; and  be- 
cause it  looks  as  if  the  leaves  had  one  root,  though  that  root 
is  unseen.  And  the  flamboyant  leaf  mouldings  are  beautiful, 
because  they  nestle  and  run  up  the  hollows,  and  fill  the  angles, 
and  clasp  the  shafts  which  natural  leaves  would  have  delighted 
to  fill  and  to  clasp.  They  are  no  mere  cast  of  natural  leaves  ; 
they  are  counted,  orderly,  and  architectural : but  they  are 
naturally,  and  therefore  beautifully,  placed. 

XHI.  Now  I do  not  mean  to  say  that  Nature  never  uses 
festoons  : she  loves  them,  and  uses  them  lavishly  ; and  though 
she  does  so  only  in  those  places  of  excessive  luxuriance  wherein 
it  seems  to  me  that  architectural  types  should  seldom  be  sought, 
yet  a falling  tendril  or  pendent  bough  might,  if  managed  with 
freedom  and  grace,  be  well  introduced  into  luxuriant  dec- 
oration (or  if  not,  it  is  not  their  want  of  beauty,  but  of  archi- 
tectural fitness,  which  incapacitates  them  for  such  uses).  But 
•what  resemblance  to  such  example  can  we  trace  in  a mass  of 
all  manner  of  fruit  and  flowers,  tied  heavily  into  a long  bunch, 
thickest  in  the  middle,  and  pinned  up  by  both  ends  against  a 
dead  wall  ? For  it  is  strange  that  the  wildest  and  most  fanci- 
ful of  the  builders  of  truly  luxuriant  architecture  never  ven- 
tured, so  far  as  I know,  even  a pendent  tendril ; while  the . 
severest  masters  of  the  revived  Greek  permitted  this  extraor- 
dinary piece  of  luscious  ugliness  to  be  fastened  in  the  middle 
of  their  blank  surfaces.  So  surely  as  this  arrangement  is 
adopted,  the  whole  value  of  the  flower  work  is  lost.  Who 
among  the  crowds  that  gaze  upon  the  building  ever  pause  to 


THE  LAMP  OF  BEAUTY. 


Ill 


admire  tlic  flower  work  of  St.  Paul’s  ? It  is  as  careful  and  as 
rich  as  it  can  be,  yet  it  adds  no  delightfulness  to  the  edifice. 
It  is  no  part  of  it.  It  is  an  ugly  excrescence.  We  always  con- 
ceive the  building  without  it,  and  should  be  happier  if  our 
conception  were  not  disturbed  by  its  presence.  It  makes  the 
rest  of  the  architecture  look  poverty-stricken,  instead  of  sub- 
lime ; and  yet  it  is  never  enjoyed  itself.  Had  it  been  put, 
where  it  ought,  into  the  capitals,  it  would  have  been  beheld 
with  never-ceasing  delight.  I do  not  mean  that  it  could  have 
been  so  in  the  j)resent  building,  for  such  kind  of  architecture 
has  no  business  with  rich  ornament  in  any  place  ; but  that  if 
those  groups  of  flowers  had  been  put  into  natural  places  in  an 
edifice  of  another  style,  their  value  would  have  been  felt  as  viv- 
idly as  now  their  uselessness.  What  applies  to  festoons  is  still 
more  sternly  true  of  garlands.  A garland  is  meant  to  be  seen 
upon  a head.  There  it  is  beautiful,  because  we  suppose  it 
newly  gathered  and  joyfully  worn.  But  it  is  not  meant  to  bo 
hung  upon  a wall.  If  you  want  a circular  ornament,  put  a 
flat  circle  of  colored  marble,  as  in  the  Casa  Doria  and  other 
such  palaces  at  Yenice  ; or  put  a star,  or  a medallion,  or  if 
you  want  a ring,  put  a solid  one,8  but  do  not  carve  the  images 
of  garlands,  looking  as  if  they  had  been  used  in  the  last  pro- 
cession, and  been  hung  up  to  dry,  and  serve  next  time  with- 
ered. Why  not  also  carve  pegs,  and  hats  upon  them  ? 

XIY.  One  of  the  worst  enemies  of  modern  Gothic  architect- 
ure, though  seemingly  an  unimportant  feature,  is  an  excres- 
cence, as  offensive  by  its  poverty  as  the  garland  by  its  profu- 
sion, the  dripstone  in  the  shape  of  the  handle  of  a chest  of 
drawers,  which  is  used  over  the  square-headed  windows  of 
what  we  call  Elizabethan  buildings.  In  the  last  Chapter, 
it  will  be  remembered  that  the  square  form  was  shown  to  be 
that  of  pre-eminent  Power,  and  to  be  properly  adapted  and. 
limited  to  the  exhibition  of  space  or  surface.  Hence,  when 
the  window  is  to  be  an  exponent  of  power,  as  for  instance  in 
those  by  M.  Angelo  in  the  lower  story  of  the  Palazzo  Ricardi 
at  Florence,  the  square  head  is  the  most  noble  form  they  can 
assume  ; but  then  either  their  space  must  be  unbroken,  and 
their  associated  mouldings  the  most  severe,  or  else  the  square 


112 


THE  LAMP  OF  BEAUTY. 


must  be  used  as  a finial  outline,  and  is  chiefly  to  be  associated 
-with  forms  of  tracery,  in  which  the  relative  form  of  power,  the 
circle,  is  predominant,  as  in  Venetian,  and  Florentine,  and 
Pisan  Gothic.  But  if  you  break  upon  your  terminal  square, 
or  if  you  cut  its  lines  off  at  the  top  and  turn  them  outwards, 
you  have  lost  its  unity  and  space.  It  is  an  including  form  no 
longer,  but  an  added,  isolated  line,  and  the  ugliest  possible. 
Look  abroad  into  the  landscape  and  see  if  you  can  discover 
any  one  so  bent  and  fragmentary  as  that  of  this  strange  wind- 
lass-looking dripstone.  You  cannot.  It  is  a monster.  It 
unites  every  element  of  ugliness,  its  line  is  harshly  broken  in 
itself,  and  unconnected  with  every  other  ; it  has  no  harmony 
either  with  structure  or  decoration,  it  has  no  architectural  sup- 
port, it  looks  glued  to  the  wall,  and  the  only  pleasant  property 
it  has,  is  the  appearance  of  some  likelihood  of  its  dropping  off. 

I might  proceed,  but  the  task  is  a weary  one,  and  I think  I 
have  named  those  false  forms  cf  decoration  which  are  most 
dangerous  in  our  modern  architecture  as  being  legal  and  ac- 
cepted. The  barbarisms  of  individual  fancy  are  as  countless 
as  they  are  contemptible ; they  neither  admit  attack  nor  are 
worth  it ; but  these  above  named  are  countenanced,  some  by 
the  practice  of  antiquity,  all  by  high  authority  : they  have  de- 
pressed the  proudest,  and  contaminated  the  purest  schools, 
and  are  so  established  in  recent  practice  that  I write  rather 
for  the  barren  satisfaction  of  bearing  witness  against  them, 
than  with  hope  of  inducing  any  serious  convictions  to  their 
prejudice. 

XV.  Thus  far  of  what  is  not  ornament.  What  ornament  is, 
will  without  difficulty  be  determined  by  the  application  of  the 
same  test.  It  must  consist  of  such  studious  arrangements  of 
form  as  are  imitative  or  suggestive  of  those  which  are  com- 
monest among  natural  existences,  that  being  of  course  the 
noblest  ornament  which  represents  the  highest  orders  of  ex- 
istence. Imitated  flowers  are  nobler  than  imitated  stones, 
imitated  animals,  than  flowers ; imitated  human  form  of  all 
animal  forms  the  noblest.  But  all  are  combined  in  the 
richest  ornamental  wrork  ; and  the  rock,  the  fountain,  the 
flowing  river  with  its  pebbled  bed,  the  sea,  the  clouds  of 


THE  LAMP  OF  BEAUTY. 


113 


Heaven,  the  herb  of  the  field,  the  fruit-tree  bearing  fruit,  the 
creeping  thing,  the  bird,  the  beast,  the  man,  and  the  angel, 
mingle  their  fair  forms  on  the  bronze  of  Ghiberti. 

Every  tiling  being  then  ornamental  that  is  imitative,  I 
would  ask  the  reader’s  attention  to  a few  general  considera- 
tions, all  that  can  here  be  offered  relating  to  so  vast  a subject ; 
which,  for  convenience  sake,  may  be  classed  under  the  three 
heads  of  inquiry  : — What  is  the  right  place  for  architectural 
ornament?  What  is  the  peculiar  treatment  of  ornament 
which  renders  it  architectural  ? and  what  is  the  right  use  of 
color  as  associated  with  architectural  imitative  form  ? 

XVI.  What  is  the  place  of  ornament  ? Consider  first  that 
the  characters  of  natural  objects  which  the  architect  can 
represent  are  few  and  abstract.  The  greater  part  of  those 
delights  by  which  Nature  recommends  herself  to  man  at  all 
times,  cannot  be  conveyed  by  him  into  his  imitative  work. 
He  cannot  make  his  grass  green  and  cool  and  good  to  rest 
upon,  which  in  nature  is  its  chief  use  to  man  ; nor  can  ho 
make  his  flowers  tender  and  full  of  color  and  of  scent,  which 
in  nature  are  tlieir  chief  powers  of  giving  joy.  Those  quali- 
ties which  alone  he  can  secure  are  certain  severe  characters 
of  form,  such  as  men  only  see  in  nature  on  deliberate  exami- 
nation, and  by  the  full  and  set  appliance  of  sight  and 
thought : a man  must  lie  down  on  the  bank  of  grass  on  his 
breast  and  set  himself  to  watch  and  penetrate  the  intertwin- 
ing of  it,  before  he  finds  that  which  is  good  to  be  gathered  by 
the  architect.  So  then  while  Nature  is  at  all  times  pleasant  to 
us,  and  while  the  sight  and  sense  of  her  work  may  mingle 
happily  with  all  our  thoughts,  and  labors,  and  times  of  exist- 
ence, that  image  of  her  which  the  architect  carries  away 
represents  what  we  can  only  perceive  in  her  by  direct  in- 
tellectual exertion,  and  demands  from  us,  wherever  it  appears, 
an  intellectual  exertion  of  a similar  kind  in  order  to  under- 
stand it  and  feel  it.  It  is  the  written  or  sealed  impression  of 
a thing  sought  out,  it  is  the  shaped  result  of  inquiry  and 
bodily  expression  of  thought. 

XVII.  Now  let  us  consider  for  an  instant  what  wrould  be 
the  effect  of  continually  repeating  an  expression  of  a beautiful 


114 


THE  LAMP  OF  BEAUTY, 


thought  to  any  other  of  the  senses  at  times  when  the  mind 
could  not  address  that  sense  to  the  understanding  of  it. 
Suppose  that  in  time  of  serious  occupation,  of  stern  business, 
a companion  should  repeat  in  our  ears  continually  some 
favorite  passage  of  poetry,  over  and  over  again  all  day  long. 
We  should  not  only  soon  be  utterly  sick  and  weary  of  the 
sound  of  it,  but  that  sound  would  at  the  end  of  the  day  have 
so  sunk  into  the  habit  of  the  ear  that  the  entire  meaning  of 
the  passage  would  be  dead  to  us,  and  it  would  ever  thence- 
forward require  some  effort  to  fix  and  recover  it.  The  music 
of  it  would  not  meanwhile  have  aided  the  business  in  hand, 
while  its  own  delightfulness  would  thenceforward  be  in  a 
measure  destroyed.  It  is  the  same  with  every  other  form  of 
definite  thought.  If  you  violently  present  its  expression  to 
the  senses,  at  times  when  the  mind  is  otherwise  engaged,  that 
expression  will  be  ineffective  at  the  time,  and  will  have  its 
sharpness  and  clearness  destroyed  forever.  Much  more  if 
you  present  it  to  the  mind  at  times  when  it  is  painfully 
affected  or  disturbed,  or  if  you  associate  the  expression  of 
pleasant  thought  with  incongruous  circumstances,  you  will 
affect  that  expression  thenceforward  with  a painful  color  for 
ever. 

XYin.  Apply  this  to  expressions  of  thought  received  by 
the  eye.  Remember  that  the  eye  is  at  your  mercy  more  than 
the  ear.  “ The  eye  it  cannot  choose  but  see.”  Its  nerve  is 
not  so  easily  numbed  as  that  of  the  ear,  and  it  is  often  busied 
in  tracing  and  watching  forms  when  the  ear  is  at  rest.  Now 
if  you  present  lovely  forms  to  it  when  it  cannot  call  the  mind 
to  help  it  in  its  'work,  and  among  objects  of  vulgar  use  and 
unhappy  position,  you  will  neither  please  the  eye  nor  elevate 
the  vulgar  object.  But  you  will  fill  and  weary  the  eye  with 
the  beautiful  form,  and  you  will  infect  that  form  itself  with 
the  vulgarity  of  the  thing  to  which  you  have  violently  attached 
it.  It  will  never  be  of  much  use  to  you  any  more ; you  have 
killed  or  defiled  it ; its  freshness  and  purity  are  gone.  You 
will  have  to  pass  it  through  the  fire  of  much  thought  before 
you  will  cleanse  it,  and  warm  it  with  much  love  before  it  will 
revive. 


THE  LAMP  OF  BEAUTY. 


115 


XIX.  Hence  then  a general  lew,  of  singular  importance  in 
the  present  day,  a law  of  simple  common  sense, — not  to  deco- 
rate things  belonging  to  purposes  of  active  and  occupied 
life.  Wherever  you  can  rest,  there  decorate ; where  rest  is 
forbidden,  so  is  beauty.  You  must  not  mix  ornament  with 
business,  any  more  than  you  may  mix  play.  Work  first,  and 
then  rest.  Work  first  and  then  gaze,  but  do  not  use  golden 
ploughshares,  nor  bind  ledgers  in  enamel.  Do  not  thrash 
with  sculptured  flails  : nor  put  bas-reliefs  on  millstones. 
What ! it  will  be  asked,  are  we  in  the  habit  of  doing  so  ? 
Even  so  ; always  and  everywhere.  The  most  familiar  posi- 
tion of  Greek  mouldings  is  in  these  days  on  shop  fronts. 
There  is  not  a tradesman’s  sign  nor  shelf  nor  counter  in  all 
the  streets  of  all  our  cities,  which  has  not  upon  it  ornaments 
which  were  invented  to  adorn  temples  and  beautify  kings’ 
palaces.  There  is  not  the  smallest  advantage  in  them  where 
they  are.  Absolutely  valueless— utterly  without  the  power 
of  giving  pleasure,  they  only  satiate  the  eye,  and  vulgarise 
their  own  forms.  Many  of  these  are  in  themselves  thor- 
oughly good  copies  of  fine  things,  which  things  themselves 
we  shall  never,  in  consequence,  enjoy  any  more.  Many  a 
pretty  beading  and  graceful  bracket  there  is  in  wood  dr 
stucco  above  our  grocers’  and  cheese-mongers’  and  hosiers’ 
shops  : how  it  is  that  the  tradesmen  cannot  understand  that 
custom  is  to  be  had  only  by  selling  good  tea  and  cheese  and 
cloth,  and  that  people  come  to  them  for  their  honesty,  and 
their  readiness,  and  their  right  wares,  and  not  because  they 
have  Greek  cornices  over  their  windows,  or  their  names  in 
large  gilt  letters  on  their  house  fronts?  how  pleasurable  it 
would  be  to  have  the  power  of  going  through  the  streets  of 
London,  pulling  down  those  brackets  and  friezes  and  large 
names,  restoring  to  the  tradesmen  the  capital  they  had  spent 
in  architecture,  and  putting  them  on  honest  and  equal  terms, 
each  with  his  name  in  black  letters  over  his  door,  not  shouted 
down  the  street  from  the  upper  stories,  and  each  with  a plain 
wooden  shop  casement,  with  small  panes  in  it  that  peo- 
ple would  not  think  of  breaking  in  order  to  be  sent  to 
prison  ! How  much  better  for  them  would  it  be — how  much 


116 


THE  LAMP  OF  BEAUTY. 


happier,  how  much  wiser,  to  put  their  trust  upon  their  own 
truth  and  industry,  and  not  on  the  idiocy  of  their  customers. 
It  is  curious,  and  it  says  little  for  our  national  probity  on 
the  one  hand,  or  prudence  on  the  other,  to  see  the  whole  sys- 
tem of  our  street  decoration  based  on  the  idea  that  people 
must  be  baited  to  a shop  as  moths  are  to  a candle. 

XX.  But  it  will  be  said  that  much  of  the  best  wooden  deco- 
ration of  the  middle  ages  was  in  shop  fronts.  No  ; it  was  in 
house  fronts,  of  which  the  shop  was  a part,  and  received  its 
natural  and  consistent  portion  of  the  ornament.  In  those 
days  men  lived,  and  intended  to  live  by  their  shops,  and  over 
them,  all  their  days.  They  were  contented  with  them  and 
happy  in  them : they  were  their  palaces  and  castles.  They 
gave  them  therefore  such  decoration  as  made  themselves 
happy  in  their  own  habitation,  and  they  gave  it  for  their  own 
sake.  The  upper  stories  were  always  the  richest,  and  the 
shop  was  decorated  chiefly  about  the  door,  which  belonged  to 
the  house  more  than  to  it.  And  when  our  tradesmen  settle 
to  their  shops  in  the  same  way,  and  form  no  plans  respecting 
future  villa  architecture,  let  their  whole  houses  be  decorated, 
and  their  shops  too,  but  with  a national  and  domestic  decora- 
tion (I  shall  speak  more  of  this  point  in  the  sixth  chapter). 
However,  our  cities  are  for  the  most  part  too  large  to  admit 
of  contented  dwelling  in  them  throughout  life  ; and  I do  not 
say  there  is  harm  in  our  present  system  of  separating  the 
shop  from  the  dwelling-house  ; only  where  they  are  so  sep- 
arated, let  us  remember  that  the  only  reason  for  shop  deco- 
ration is  removed,  and  see  that  the  decoration  be  removed 
also. 

XXI.  Another  of  the  strange  and  evil  tendencies  of  the 
present  day  is  to  the  decoration  of  the  railroad  station.  Now, 
if  there  be  any  place  in  the  world  in  'which  people  are  de- 
prived of  that  portion  of  temper  and  discretion  which  are 
necessary  to  the  contemplation  of  beauty,  it  is  there.  It  is 
the  very  temple  of  discomfort,  and  the  only  charity  that  the 
builder  can  extend  to  us  is  to  show  us,  plainly  as  may  be,  how 
soonest  to  escape  from  it.  The  whole  system  of  railroad  trav- 
elling is  addressed  to  people  who,  being  in  a hurry,  are  there- 


THE  LAMP  OF  BEAUTY. 


117 


fore,  for  the  time  being,  miserable.  No  one  would  travel  in 
that  manner  who  could  help  it — who  had  time  to  go  leisurely 
over  hills  and  between  hedges,  instead  of  through  tunnels  and 
between  banks  : at  least  those  who  would,  have  no  sense  6* 
beauty  so  acute  as  that  we  need  consult  it  at  the  station.  The 
railroad  is  in  all  its  relations  a matter  of  earnest  business,  to 
be  got  through  as  soon  as  possible.  It  transmutes  a man 
from  a traveller  into  a living  parcel.  For  the  time  he  has 
parted  with  the  nobler  characteristics  of  his  humanity  for  the 
sake  of  a planetary  power  of  locomotion.  Do  not  ask  him  to 
admire  anything.  You  might  as  well  ask  the  wind.  Carry 
him  safely,  dismiss  him  soon  : he  will  thank  you  for  nothing 
else.  All  attempts  to  please  him  in  any  other  way  are  mere 
mockery,  and  insults  to  the  things  by  which  you  endeavor  to 
do  so.  There  never  was  more  flagrant  nor  impertinent  folly 
than  the  smallest  portion  of  ornament  in  anything  concerned 
with  railroads  or  near  them.  Keep  them  out  of  the  way,  take 
them  through  the  ugliest  country  you  can  find,  confess  them 
the  miserable  things  they  are,  and  spend  nothing  upon  them 
but  for  safety  and  speed.  Give  large  salaries  to  efficient  ser- 
vants, large  prices  to  good  manufacturers,  large  wages  to  able 
workmen  ; let  the  iron  be  tough,  and  the  brickwork  solid, 
and  the  carriages  strong.  The  time  is  perhaps  not  distant 
when  these  first  necessities  may  not  be  easily  met : and  to  in- 
crease expense  in  any  other  direction  is  madness.  Better 
bury  gold  in  the  embankments,  than  put  it  in  ornaments  on 
the  stations.  Will  a single  traveller  be  willing  to  pay  an  in- 
creased fare  on  the  South  W7estern,  because  the  columns  of 
the  terminus  are  covered  with  patterns  from  Nineveh  ? He 
will  only  care  less  for  the  Ninevite  ivories  in  the  British  Mu- 
seum : or  on  the  North  Western,  because  there  are  old  Kng- 
lisli-looking  spandrils  to  the  roof  of  the  station  at  Crew^e  ? He 
will  only  have  less  pleasure  in  their  prototypes  at  Crewe 
House.  Railroad  architecture  has  or  would  have  a dignity 
of  its  own  if  it  were  only  left  to  its  work.  You  would  not 
put  rings  on  the  fingers  of  a smith  at  his  anvil. 

XXII.  It  is  not  howrever  only  in  these  marked  situation?} 
that  the  abuse  of  which  I speak  takes  place.  There  is  hardlys 


118 


THE  LAMP  OF  BEAUTY. 


at  present,  an  application  of  ornamental  work,  which  is  not 
in  some  sort  liable  to  blame  of  the  same  kind.  We  have  a 
bad  habit  of  trying  to  disguise  disagreeable  necessities  by 
some  form  of  sudden  decoration,  which  is,  in  all  other  places, 
associated  with  such  necessities.  I will  name  only  one  in- 
stance, that  to  which  I have  alluded  before — the  roses  which 
conceal  the  ventilators  in  the  flat  roofs  of  our  chapels.  Many 
of  those  roses  are  of  very  beautiful  design,  borrowed  from 
fine  works : all  their  grace  and  finish  are  invisible  when  they 
are  so  placed,  but  their  general  form  is  afterwards  associated 
with  the  ugly  buildings  in  which  they  constantly  occur  ; and 
all  the  beautiful  roses  of  the  early  French  and  English  Gothic, 
especially  such  elaborate  ones  as  those  of  the  triforium  of 
Coutances,  are  in  consequence  deprived  of  their  pleasurable 
influence : and  this  without  our  having  accomplished  the 
smallest  good  by  the  use  we  have  made  of  the  dishonored  form. 
Not  a single  person  in  the  congregation  ever  receives  one  ray 
of  pleasure  from  those  roof  roses  ; the}7  are  regarded  with 
mere  indifference,  or  lost  in  the  general  impression  of  harsh 
emptiness. 

XXIII.  Must  not  beauty,  then,  it  will  be  asked,  be  sought  for 
in  the  forms  wdiich  w7e  associate  with  our  every-day  life  ? Yes, 
if  you  do  it  consistently,  and  in  places  where  it  can  be  calmly 
seen  ; but  not  if  you  use  the  beautiful  form  only  as  a mask 
and  covering  of  the  proper  conditions  and  uses  of  things, 
nor  if  you  thrust  it  into  the  places  set  apart  for  toil.  Put  it  in 
the  drawing-room,  not  into  the  w orkshop  ; put  it  upon  do- 
mestic furniture,  not  upon  tools  of  handicraft.  All  men  have 
sense  of  w7hat  is  right  in  this  manner,  if  they  would  only  use 
and  apply  that  sense  ; every  man  knowTs  where  and  how 
beauty  gives  him  pleasure,  if  he  would  only  ask  for  it  when  it 
does  so,  and  not  allow  it  to  be  forced  upon  him  when  he  doe3 
not  want  it.  Ask  any  one  of  the  passengers  over  London 
Bridge  at  this  instant  wiiether  he  cares  about  the  forms  of  the 
bronze  leaves  on  its  lamps,  and  he  will  tell  you,  No.  Modify 
these  forms  of  leaves  to  a less  scale,  and  put  them  on  his  milk- 
jug  at  breakfast,  and  ask  him  whether  he  likes  them,  and  he 
will  tell  you,  Yes.  People  have  no  need  of  teaching  if  they 


THE  LAMP  OF  BEAUTY. 


119 


could  only  think  and  speak  truth,  and  ask  for  what  they  like 
and  want,  and  for  nothing  else  : nor  can  a right  disposition 
of  beauty  be  ever  arrived  at  except  by  this  common  sense, 
and  allowance  for  the  circumstances  of  the  time  and  place. 
It  does  not  follow,  because  bronze  leafage  is  in  bad  taste  on 
the  lamps  of  London  Bridge,  that  it  would  be  so  on  those  of 
the  Ponte  della  Trinita  ; nor,  because  it  would  be  a folly  to 
decorate  the  house  fronts  of  Gracechurch  Street,  that  it  would 
be  equally  so  to  adorn  those  of  some  quiet  provincial  town. 
The  question  of  greatest  external  or  internal  decoration  de- 
pends entirely  on  the  conditions  of  probable  repose.  It  was 
a wise  feeling  which  made  the  streets  of  Venice  so  rich  in  ex- 
ternal ornament,  for  there  is  no  couch  of  rest  like  the  gondola. 
So,  again,  there  is  no  subject  of  street  ornament  so  wisely 
chosen  as  the  fountain,  where  it  is  a fountain  of  use  ; for  it  is 
just  there  that  perhaps  the  happiest  pause  takes  place  in  the 
labor  of  the  day,  when  the  pitcher  is  rested  on  the  edge  of  it, 
and  the  breath  of  the  bearer  is  drawn  deeply,  and  the  hair 
swept  from  the  forehead,  and  the  uprightness  of  the  form 
declined  against  the  marble  ledge,  and  the  sound  of  the  kind 
word  or  light  laugh  mixes  with  the  trickle  of  the  falliug  water, 
heard  shriller  and  shriller  as  the  pitcher  fills.  What  pause  is 
so  sweet  as  that — so  full  of  the  depth  of  ancient  days,  so  soft- 
ened with  the  calm  of  pastoral  solitude  ? 

XXIV.  II.  Thus  far,  then,  of  the  place  for  beauty.  Wo 
were  next  to  inquire  into  the  characters  which  fitted  it  pecu- 
liarly for  architectural  appliance,  and  into  the  principles  of 
choice  and  of  arrangement  which  best  regulate  the  imitation 
of  natural  forms  in  which  it  consists.  The  full  answering  of 
these  questions  would  be  a treatise  on  the  art  of  design  : I in- 
tend only  to  say  a few  words  respecting  the  two  conditions  of 
that  art  which  are  essentially  architectural, — Proportion  and 
Abstraction.  Neither  of  these  qualities  is  necessary,  to  the 
same  extent,  in  other  fields  of  design.  The  sense  of  proportion 
is,  by  the  landscape  painter,  frequently  sacrificed  to  character 
and  accident ; the  power  of  abstraction  to  that  of  complete 
realisation.  The  fiowers  of  his  foreground  must  often  be  un- 
measured in  their  quantity,  loose  in  their  arrangement : what 


120 


THE  LAMP  OF  BEAUTY. 


is  calculated,  either  in  quantity  or  disposition,  must  be  art. 
fully  concealed.  That  calculation  is  by  the  architect  to  be 
prominently  exhibited.  So  the  abstraction  of  few  character- 
istics out  of  many  is  shown  only  in  the  painter’s  sketch ; in 
his  finished  work  it  is  concealed  or  lost  in  completion.  Archi- 
tecture, on  the  contrary,  delights  in  Abstraction  and  fears  to 
complete  her  forms.  Proportion  and  Abstraction,  then,  are 
the  two  especial  marks  of  architectural  design  as  distinguished 
from  all  other.  Sculpture  must  have  them  in  inferior  degrees  ; 
leaning,  on  the  one  hand,  to  an  architectural  manner,  when  it 
is  usually  greatest  (becoming,  indeed,  a part  of  Architecture), 
and,  on  the  other,  to  a pictorial  manner,  when  it  is  apt  to  lose 
its  dignity,  and  sink  into  mere  ingenious  carving. 

XXV.  Now,  of  Proportion  so  much  has  been  written,  that 
I believe  the  only  facts  which  are  of  practical  use  have  been 
overwhelmed  and  kept  out  of  sight  by  vain  accumulations  of 
particular  instances  and  estimates.  Proportions  are  as  infinite 
(and  that  in  all  kinds  of  things,  as  severally  in  colors,  lines, 
shades,  lights,  and  forms)  as  possible  airs  in  music  : and  it  is 
just  as  rational  an  attempt  to  teach  a young  architect  how  to 
proportion  truly  and  well  by  calculating  for  him  the  propor- 
tions of  fine  works,  as  it  would  be  to  teach  him  to  compose 
melodies  by  calculating  the  mathematical  relations  of  the  notes 
in  Beethoven’s  Adelaide  or  Mozart’s  Bequiem.  The  man  who 
has  eye  and  intellect  will  invent  beautiful  proportions,  and 
cannot  help  it ; but  he  can  no  more  tell  us  how  to  do  it  than 
Wordsworth  could  tell  us  how  to  write  a sonnet,  or  than  Scott 
could  have  told  us  how  to  plan  a romance.  But  there  are  one 
or  two  general  laws  which  can  be  told : they  are  of  no  use, 
indeed,  except  as  preventives  of  gross  mistake,  but  they  are  so 
far  worth  telling  and  remembering  ; and  the  more  so  because, 
in  the  discussion  of  the  subtle  laws  of  proportion  (which  will 
never  be  either  numbered  or  known),  architects  are  perpet- 
ually forgetting  and  transgressing  the  very  simplest  of  its 
necessities. 

XXVI.  Of  w^hich  the  first  is,  that  wherever  Proportion  exists 
at  all,  one  member  of  the  composition  must  be  either  larger 
than,  or  in  some  way  supreme  over,  the  rest.  There  is  no 


THE  LAMP  OF  BEAUTY. 


12] 


proportion  between  equal  things.  They  can  have  symmetry 
only,  and  symmetry  without  proportion  is  not  composition.  It 
is  necessary  to  perfect  beauty,  but  it  is  the  least  necessary  of 
its  elements,  nor  of  course  is  there  any  difficulty  in  obtaining 
it.  Any  succession  of  equal  things  is  agreeable  ; but  to  com- 
pose is  to  arrange  unequal  things,  and  the  first  thing  to  be 
done  in  beginning  a composition  is  to  determine  which  is  to 
be  the  principal  thing.  I believe  that  all  that  has  been 
written  and  taught  about  proportion,  put  together,  is  not  to 
the  architect  worth  the  single  rule,  wrell  enforced,  “Have  one 
large  thing  and  several  smaller  things,  or  one  principal  thing 
and  several  inferior  things,  and  bind  them  well  together.” 
Sometimes  there  may  be  a regular  gradation,  as  between  the 
heights  of  stories  in  good  designs  for  houses ; sometimes  a 
monarch  with  a lowly  train,  as  in  the  spire  with  its  pinnacles  : 
the  varieties  of  arrangement  are  infinite,  but  the  law  is  uni’ 
versal— have  one  thing  above  the  rest,  either  by  size,  or  office, 
or  interest.  Don’t  put  the  pinnacles  without  the  spire.  What 
a host  of  ugly  church  towers  have  we  in  England,  with  pinna- 
cles at  the  corners,  and  none  in  the  middle ! How  many 
buildings  like  King’s  College  Chapel  at  Cambridge,  looking 
like  tables  upside  down,  with  their  four  legs  in  the  air ! What ! 
it  will  be  said,  have  not  beasts  four  legs  ? Yes,  but  legs  of 
different  shapes,  and  with  a head  between  them.  So  they 
have,  a pair  of  ears  : and  perhaps  a pair  of  horns  : but  not  at 
both  ends.  Knock  down  a couple  of  pinnacles  at  either  end 
in  King’s  College  Chapel,  and  you  will  have  a kind  of  propor- 
tion instantly.  So  in  a cathedral  you  may  have  one  tower  in 
the  centre,  and  two  at  the  west  end  ; or  two  at  the  west  end 
only,  though  a worse  arrangement:  but  you  must  not  have 
two  at  the  west  and  two  at  the  east  end,  unless  you  have  some 
central  member  to  connect  them  ; and  even  then,  buildings 
are  generally  bad  which  have  large  balancing  features  at  the 
I extremities,  and  small  connecting  ones  in  the  centre,  because 
it  is  not  easy  then  to  make  the  centre  dominant.  The  bird  or 
moth  may  indeed  have  wide  wings,  because  the  size  of  the  wing 
does  not  give  supremacy  to  the  wing.  The  head  and  life  are 
the  mighty  things,  and  the  plumes,  however  wide,  are  sub- 


122 


THE  LAMP  OF  BEAUTY. 


ordinate.  In  fine  west  fronts  with  a pediment  and  two  towers, 
the  centre  is  always  the  principal  ma§s,  both  in  bulk  and  in- 
terest (as  having  the  main  gateway),  and  the  towers  are  sub- 
ordinated to  it,  as  an  animal’s  horns  are  to  its  head.  The 
moment  the  towers  rise  so  high  as  to  overpower  the  body  and 
centre,  and  become  themselves  the  principal  masses,  they  will 
destroy  the  proportion,  unless  they  are  made  unequal,  and 
one  of  them  the  leading  feature  of  the  cathedral,  as  at  Ant- 
werp and  Strasburg.  But  the  purer  method  is  to  keep  them 
down  in  due  relation  to  the  centre,  and  to  throw  up  the  pedi- 
ment into  a steep  connecting  mass,  drawing  the  eye  to  it  by 
rich  tracery.  This  is  nobly  done  in  St.  Wulfran  of  Abbeville, 
and  attempted  partly  at  Rouen,  though  that  west  front  is  made 
up  of  so  many  unfinished  and  supervening  designs  that  it  is 
impossible  to  guess  the  real  intention  of  any  one  of  its  builders. 

XXVII.  This  rule  of  supremacy  applies  to  the  smallest  as 
well  as  to  the  leading  features : it  is  interestingly  seen  in  the 
arrangement  of  all  good  mouldings.  I have  given  one,  on  the 
opposite  page,  from  Rouen  cathedral ; that  of  the  tracery  be- 
fore distinguished  as  a type  of  the  noblest  manner  of  Northern 
Gothic  (Chap,  II.  § XXH.).  It  is  a tracery  of  three  orders,  of 
which  the  first  is  divided  into  a leaf  moulding,  fig.  4,  and  b in 
the  section,  and  a plain  roll,  also  seen  in  fig.  4,  c in  the  sec- 
tion ; these  two  divisions  surround  the  entire  window  or  pan- 
elling, and  are  carried  by  two-face  shafts  of  corresponding  sec- 
tions. The  second  and  third  orders  are  plain  rolls  following 
the  line  of  the  tracery  ; four  divisions  of  moulding  in  all : of 
these  -four,  the  leaf  moulding  is,  as  seen  in  the  sections,  much 
the  largest  ; next  to  it  the  outer  roll ; then,  by  an  exquisite 
alternation,  the  innermost  roll  (e),  in  order  that' it  may  not  be 
lost  in  the  recess  and  the  intermediate  (cl),  the  smallest.  Each 
roll  has  its  own  shaft  and  capital ; and  the  two  smaller,  wliich 
in  effect  upon  the  eye,  owing  to  the  retirement  of  the  inner- 
most, are  nearly  equal,  have  smaller  capitals  than  the  two 
larger,  lifted  a little  to  bring  them  to  the  same  level.  The 
wall  in  the  trefoiled  lights  is  curved,  as  from  e to/  in  the  sec- 
tion ; but  in  the  quatrefoil  it  is  flat,  only  thrown  back  to  the 
full  depth  of  the  recess  below  so  as  to  get  a sharp  shadow  in- 


PLATE  X.— (Page  122— Vol.  Y.) 

Traceries  and  Mouldings  from  Rouen  and  Salisbury. 


THE  LAMP  OF  BEAUTY. 


123 


stead  of  a soft  one,  the  mouldings  falling  back  to  it  in  nearly 
a vertical  curve  behind  the  roll  e.  This  could  not,  however, 
be  managed  with  the  simpler  mouldings  of  the  smaller  qua- 
trefoil  above,  whose  half  section  is  given  from  g to  ; but 
the  architect  was  evidently  fretted  by  the  heavy  look  of  its 
circular  foils  as  opposed  to  the  light  spring  of  the  arches  be- 
low : so  he  threw  its  cusps  obliquely  clear  from  the  wall,  as 
seen  in  fig.  2,  attached  to  it  where  they  meet  the  circle,  but 
with  their  finials  pushed  out  from  the  natural  level  (/i,  in  the 
section)  to  that  of  the  first  order  (y2)  and  supported  by  stone 
props  behind,  as  seen  in  the  profile  fig.  2,  which  I got  from 
the  correspondent  panel  on  the  buttress  face  (fig.  1 being  on 
its  side),  and  of  which  the  lower  cusps,  being  broken  away, 
show  the  remnant  of  one  of  their  props  projecting  from  the 
wall.  The  oblique  curve  thus  obtained  in  the  profile  is  of 
singular  grace.  Take  it  all  in  all,  I have  never  met  with  a 
more  exquisite  piece  of  varied,  yet  severe,  proportioned  and 
general  arrangement  (though  all  the  windows  of  the  period 
are  fine,  and  especially  delightful  in  the  subordinate  propor- 
tioning of  the  smaller  capitals  to  the  smaller  shafts).  The 
only  fault  it  has  is  the  inevitable  misarrangement  of  the  cen- 
tral shafts ; for  the  enlargement  of  the  inner  roll,  though 
beautiful  in  the  group  of  four  divisions  at  the  side,  causes, 
in  the  triple  central  shaft,  the  very  awkwardness  of  heavy 
lateral  members  which  has  just  been  in  most  instances  con- 
demned. In  the  windows  of  the  choir,  and  in  most  of  the 
period,  this  difficulty  is  avoided  by  making  the  fourth  order  a 
fillet  which  only  follows  the  foliation,  while  the  three  outer- 
most are  nearly  in  arithmetical  progression  of  size,  and  the  cen- 
tral triple  shaft  has  of  course  the  largest  roll  in  front.  The 
moulding  of  the  Palazzo  Foscari  (Plate  YIII.,  and  Plate  IV. 
fig.  8)  is,  for  so  simple  a group,  the  grandest  in  effect  I have 
even  seen  : it  is  composed  of  a large  roll  with  two  subordi- 
nates. 

XXVIII.  It  is  of  course  impossible  to  enter  into  details  of 
instances  belonging  to  so  intricate  division  of  our  subject,  in 
the  compass  of  a general  essay.  I can  but  rapidly  name  the 
chief  conditions  of  right.  Another  of  these  is  the  connection 


124 


THE  LAMP  OF  BEAUTY. 


of  Symmetry  with  horizontal,  and  of  Proportion  with  vertical, 
division.  Evidently  there  is  in  symmetry  a sense  not  merely 
of  equality,  but  of  balance  : now  a thing  cannot  be  balanced 
by  another  on  the  top  of  it,  though  it  may  by  one  at  the  side 
of  it.  Hence,  while  it  is  not  only  allowable,  but  often  neces- 
sary, to  divide  buildings,  or  parts  of  them,  horizontally  into 
halves,  thirds,  or  other  equal  parts,  all  vertical  divisions  of 
this  kind  are  utterly  wrong ; worst  into  half,  next  worst  in 
the  regular  numbers  which  more  betray  the  equality.  I should 
have  thought  this  almost  the  first  principle  of  proportion 
which  a young  architect  was  taught : and  yet  I remember  an 
important  building,  recently  erected  in  England,  in  which 
the  columns  are  cut  in  half  by  the  projecting  architraves  of 
the  central  windows ; and  it  is  quite  usual  to  see  the  spires 
of  modern  Gothic  churches  divided  by  a band  of  ornament 
half  way  up.  In  all  fine  spires  there  are  two  bands  and  three 
parts,  as  at  Salisbury.  The  ornamented  portion  of  the  tower 
is  there  cut  in  half,  and  allowably,  because  the  spire  forms  the 
third  mass  to  which  the  other  two  are  subordinate  : two  sto- 
ries are  also  equal  in  Giotto’s  campanile,  but  dominant  over 
smaller  divisions  below,  and  subordinated  to  the  noble  third 
above.  Even  this  arrangement  is  difficult  to  treat ; and  it  is 
usually  safer  to  increase  or  diminish  the  height  of  the  divis- 
ions regularly  as  they  rise,  as  in  the  Doge’s  Palace,  whose 
three  divisions  are  in  a bold  geometrical  progression  : or,  in 
towers,  to  get  an  alternate  proportion  between  the  body,  the 
belfry,  and  the  crown,  as  in  the  campanile  of  St.  Mark’s. 
But,  at  all  events,  get  rid  of  equality ; leave  that  to  children 
and  their  card  houses : the  laws  of  nature  and  the  reason  of 
man  are  alike  against  it,  in  arts,  as  in  politics.  There  is  but 
one  thoroughly  ugly  tower  in  Italy  that  I know  of,  and  that 
is  so  because  it  is  divided  into  vertical  equal  parts  : the  tower 
of  Pisa.12 

XXIX.  One  more  principle  of  Proportion  I have  to  name, 
equally  simple,  equally  neglected.  Proportion  is  between 
three  terms  at  least.  Hence,  as  the  pinnacles  are  not  enough 
without  the  spire,  so  neither  the  spire  without  the  pinnacles.  All 
men  feel  this  and  usually  express  their  feeling  by  saying  that 


TEE  LAMP  OF  BEAUTY. 


125 


the  pinnacles  conceal  the  junction  of  the  spire  and  tower. 
This  is  one  reason  ; but  a more  influential  one  is,  that  the 
pinnacles  furnish  the  third  term  to  the  spire  and  tower.  So 
that  it  is  not  enough,  in  order  to  secure  proportion,  to  divide 
a building  unequally  ; it  must  be  divided  into  at  least  three 
parts ; it  may  be  into  more  (and  in  details  with  advantage), 
but  on  a large  scale  I find  three  is  about  the  best  number  ol 
parts  in  elevation,  and  five  in  horizontal  extent,  with  freedom 
of  increase  to  five  in  the  one  case  and  seven  in  the  other ; but 
not  to  more  without  confusion  (in  architecture,  that  is  to  say ; 
for  in  organic  structure  the  numbers  cannot  be  limited).  I 
purpose,  in  the  course  of  works  which  are  in  preparation,  to 
give  copious  illustrations  of  this  subject,  but  I will  take  at 
present  only  one  instance  of  vertical  proportion,  from  the 
flower  stem  of  the  common  water  plantain,  Alisma  Plantcigo. 
Fig.  5,  Plate  XII.  is  a reduced  profile  of  one  side  of  a plant 
gathered  at  random ; it  is  seen  to  have  five  masts,  of  which, 
however,  the  uppermost  is  a mere  shoot,  and  we  can  consider 
only  their  relations  up  to  the  fourth.  Their  lengths  are 
measured  on  the  line  A B,  which  is  the  actual  length  of  the 
lowest  mass  a b,  A C =b  c,  A D—c  d , and  A E=d  e.  If  the 
reader  will  take  the  trouble  to  measure  these  lengths  and 
compare  them,  he  will  find  that,  within  half  a line,  the  upper- 
most A E=-jf  of  A D,  A D=|  of  A C,  and  A of  A B ; a 
most  subtle  diminishing  proportion.  From  each  of  the  joints 
spring  three  major  and  three  minor  branches,  each  between 
each  ; but  the  major  branches,  at  any  .joint,  are  placed  over 
the  minor  branches  at  the  joint  below,  by  the  curious  arrange- 
ment of  the  joint  itself — the  stem  is  bluntly  triangular  ; fig. 
6 shows  the  section  of  any  joint.  The  outer  darkened  tri- 
angle is  the  section  of  the  lower  stem  ; the  inner,  left  light, 
of  the  upper  stem  ; and  the  three  main  branches  spring  from 
the  ledges  left  by  the  recession.  Thus  the  stems  diminish  in 
diameter  just  as  they  diminish  in  height.  The  main  branches 
(falsely  placed  in  the  profile  over  each  other  to  show  their 
relations)  have  respectively  seven,  six,  five,  four,  and  three 
arm-oones,  like  the  masts  of  the  stem  ; these  divisions  being 
proportioned  in  the  same  subtle  manner.  From  the  joints  of 


126 


TEE  LAMP  OF  BEAUTY. 


these,  it  seems  to  be  th & plan  of  the  plant  that  three  majol 
and  three  minor  branches  should  again  spring,  bearing  the 
flowers : but,  in  these  infinitely  complicated  members,  vege- 
tative nature  admits  much  variety  ; in  the  plant  from  which 
these  measures  were  taken  the  full  complement  appeared  only 
at  one  of  the  secondary  joints. 

The  leaf  of  this  plant  has  five  ribs  on  each  side,  as  its  flower 
generally  five  masts,  arranged  with  the  most  exquisite  grace 
of  curve  ; but  of  lateral  proportion  I shall  rather  take  illustra- 
tions from  architecture  : the  reader  will  find  several  in  the  ac- 
counts of  the  Duomo  at  Pisa  and  St.  Mark’s  at  Venice,  in 
Chap.  V.  §§XIV. — XVI.  I give  these  arrangements  merely  as 
illustrations,  not  as  precedents : all  beautiful  proportions  are 
unique,  they  are  not  general  formulae. 

XXX.  The  other  condition  of  architectural  treatment  which 
we  proposed  to  notice  was  the  abstraction  of  imitated  form. 
But  there  is  a peculiar  difficulty  in  touching  within  these  nar- 
row limits  on  such  a subject  as  this,  because  the  abstraction 
of  which  we  find  examples  in  existing  art,  is  partly  involun- 
tary ; and  it  is  a matter  of  much  nicety  to  determine  where  it 
begins  to  be  purposed.  In  the  progress  of  national  as  well 
as  of  individual  mind,  the  first  attempts  at  imitation  are  al- 
ways abstract  and  incomplete.  Greater  completion  marks 
the  progress  of  art,  absolute  completion  usually  its  decline ; 
whence  absolute  completion  of  imitative  form  is  often  sup- 
posed to  be  in  itself  wrong.  But  it  is  not  wTrong  always,  only 
dangerous.  Let  us  endeavor  briefly  to  ascertain  wherein  its 
danger  consists,  and  wherein  its  dignity. 

XXXI.  I have  said  that  all  art  is  abstract  in  its  beginnings  ; 
that  is  to  say,  it  expresses  only  a small  number  of  the  qualities 
of  the  thing  represented.  Curved  and  complex  lines  are  repre- 
sented by  straight  and  simple  ones  ; interior  markings  of  forms 
are  few,  and  much  is  symbolical  and  conventional  There  is  a 
resembance  between  the  work  of  a great  nation,  in  this  phase, 
and  the  work  of  childhood  and  ignorance,  which,  in  the  mind 
of  a careless  observer,  might  attach  something  like  ridicule  to  it 
The  form  of  a tree  on  the  Ninevite  sculptures  is  much  like  that 
which,  some  twenty  years  ago,  was  familiar  upon  samplers ; and 


THE  LAMP  OF  BEAUTY. 


127 


the  types  of  the  face  and  figure  in  early  Italian  art  are  suscepti- 
ble of  easy  caricature.  On  the  signs  which  separate  the  infancy 
of  magnificent  manhood  from  every  other,  I do  not  pause  to 
insist  (they  consist  entirely  in  the  choice  of  the  symbol  and  of 
the  features  abstracted) ; but  I pass  to  the  next  stage  of  art,  a 
condition  of  strength  in  which  the  abstraction  which  was  begun 
in  incapability  is  continued  in  free  will  This  is  the  case,  how- 
ever, in  pure  sculpture  and  painting,  as  well  as  in  architecture  ; 
and  we  have  nothing  to  do  but  with  that  greater  severity  of 
manner  which  fits  either  to  be  associated  with  the  more  realist 
art.  I believe  it  properly  consists  only  in  a due  expression  of 
their  subordination,  an  expression  varying  according  to  their 
place  and  office.  The  question  is  first  to  be  clearly  determined 
whether  the  architecture  is  a frame  for  the  sculpture,  or  the 
sculpture  an  ornament  of  the  architecture.  If  the  latter,  then 
the  first  office  of  that  sculpture  is  not  to  represent  the  things  it 
imitates,  but  to  gather  out  of  them  those  arrangements  of 
form  which  shall  be  pleasing  to  the  eye  in  their  intended  places. 
So  soon  as  agreeable  hues  and  points  of  shade  have  been  added 
to  the  mouldings  which  were  meagre,  or  to  the  lights  which 
were  unrelieved,  the  architectural  work  of  the  imitation  is  ac- 
complished ; and  how  far  it  shall  be  wrought  towards  complete- 
ness or  not,  will  depend  upon  its  place,  and  upon  other  various 
circumstances.  If,  in  its  particular  use  or  position,  it  is  sym- 
metrically arranged,  there  is,  of  course,  an  instant  indication  of 
architectural  subjection.  But  symmetry  is  not  abstraction. 
Leaves  may  be  carved  in  the  most  regular  order,  and  yet  be 
meanly  imitative  ; or,  on  the  other  hand,  they  may  be  thrown 
wild  and  loose,  and  yet  be  highly  architectural  in  their  separate 
treatment.  Nothing  can  be  less  symmetrical  than  the  group  of 
leaves  which  join  the  two  columns  in  Plate  XIII.  ; yet,  since 
nothing  of  the  leaf  character  is  given  but  what  is  necessary 
for  the  bare  suggestion  of  its  image  and  the  attainment  of  the 
lines  desired,  their  treatment  is  highly  abstract.  It  shows  that 
the  workman  only  wanted  so  much  of  the  leaf  as  he  supposed 
good  for  his  architecture,  and  would  allow  no  more  ; and  how 
much  is  to  be  supposed  good,  depends,  as  I have  said,  much 
more  on  place  and  circumstance  than  on  general  laws.  I know" 


128 


THE  LAMP  OF  BEAUTY, 


that  this  is  not  usually  thought,  and  that  many  good  architects 
would  insist  on  abstraction  in  all  cases : the  question  is  so  wide 
and  so  difficult  that  I express  my  opinion  upon  it  most  diffi- 
dently ; but  my  own  feeling  is,  that  a purely  abstract  manner, 
like  that  of  our  earliest  English  work,  does  not  afford  room  for 
the  perfection  of  beautiful  form,  and  that  its  severity  is  weari- 
some after  the  eye  has  been  long  accustomed  to  it.  I have  not 
done  justice  to  the  Salisbury  dog-tooth  moulding,  of  which  the 
effect  is  sketched  in  fig.  5,  Plate  X.,  but  I have  done  more  jus- 
tice to  it  nevertheless  than  to  the  beautiful  French  one  above 
it ; and  I do  not  think  that  any  candid  reader  would  deny  that, 
piquant  and  spirited  as  is  that  from  Salisbury,  the  Rouen  mould- 
ing is,  in  every  respect,  nobler.  It  will  be  observed  that  its 
symmetry  is  more  complicated,  the  leafage  being  divided  into 
double  groups  of  two  lobes  each,  each  lobe  of  different  struct- 
ure. With  exquisite  feeling,  one  of  these  double  groups  is 
alternately  omitted  on  the  other  side  of  the  moulding  (not  seen 
in  the  Plate,  but  occupying  the  cavetto  of  the  section),  thus 
giving  a playful  lightness  to  the  whole  ; and  if  the  reader  will 
allow  for  a beauty  in  the  flow  of  the  curved  outlines  (especially 
on  the  angle),  of  which  he  cannot  in  the  least  judge  from  my 
rude  drawing,  he  will  not,  I think,  expect  easily  to  find  a nobler 
instance  of  decoration  adapted  to  the  severest  mouldings. 

Now  it  will  be  observed,  that  there  is  in  its  treatment  a 
high  degree  of  abstraction,  though  not  so  conventional  as  that 
of  Salisbury  : that  is  to  say,  the  leaves  have  little  more  than 
their  flow  and  outline  represented  ; they  are  hardly  undercut, 
but  their  edges  are  connected  by  a gentle  and  most  studied 
curve  with  the  stone  behind  ; they  have  no  serrations,  no 
veinings,  no  rib  or  stalk  on  the  angle,  only  an  incision  grace- 
fully made  towards  their  extremities,  indicative  of  the  central 
rib  and  depression.  The  whole  style  of  the  abstraction  shows 
that  the  architect  could,  if  he  had  chosen,  have  carried  the 
imitation  much  farther,  but  stayed  at  this  point  of  his  own 
free  will  ; and  what  he  has  done  is  also  so  perfect  in  its  kind, 
that  I feel  disposed  to  accept  his  authority  without  question, 
so  far  as  I can  gather  it  from  bis  works,  on  the  whole  subject 
of  abstraction. 


TEE  LAMP  OF  BEAUTY. 


129 


XXXII.  Happily  his  opinion  is  frankly  expressed.  This 
moulding  is  on  the  lateral  buttress,  and  on  a level  with  the  top 
of  the  north  gate ; it  cannot  therefore  be  closely  seen  except 
from  the  wooden  stairs  of  the  belfry  ; it  is  not  intended  to  be 
so  seen,  but  calculated  for  a distance  of,  at  least,  forty  to  fifty 
feet  from  the  eye.  In  the  vault  of  the  gate  itself,  half  as  near 
again,  there  are  three  rows  of  mouldings,  as  I think,  by  the 
same  designer,  at  all  events  part  of  the  same  plan.  One  of 
them  is  given  in  Plate  L fig.  2 a.  It  will  be  seen  that  the  ab- 
straction is  here  infinitely  less  ; the  ivy  leaves  have  stalks  and 
associated  fruit,  and  a rib  for  each  lobe,  and  are  so  far  under- 
cut as  to  detach  their  forms  from  the  stone  ; while  in  the  vine- 
leaf  moulding  above,  of  the  same  period,  from  the  south  gate, 
serration  appears  added  to  other  purely  imitative  characters. 
Finally,  in  the  animals  which  form  the  ornaments  of  the  por- 
tion of  the  gate  which  is  close  to  the  eye,  abstraction  nearly 
vanishes  into  perfect  sculpture. 

XXXUI.  Nearness  to  the  eye,  however,  is  not  the  only  cir- 
cumstance which  influences  architectural  abstraction.  These 
very  animals  are  not  merely  better  cut  because  close  to  the 
eye  ; they  are  put  close  to  the  eye  that  they  may,  without  in- 
discretion, be  better  cut,  on  the  noble  principle,  first  I think, 
.clearly  enunciated  by  Mr.  Eastlake,  that  the  closest  imitation 
shall  be  of  the  noblest  object.  Farther,  since  the  wildness 
and  manner  of  growth  of  vegetation  render  a bona  fide  imita- 
tion of  it  impossible  in  sculpture — since  its  members  must  be 
reduced  in  number,  ordered  in  direction,  and  cut  away  from 
their  roots,  even  under  the  most  earnestly  imitative  treatment, 
— it  becomes  a point,  as  I think,  of  good  judgment,  to  pro- 
portion the  completeness  of  execution  of  parts  to  the  formality 
of  the  whole  ; and  since  five  or  six  leaves  must  stand  for  a 
tree,  to  let  also  five  or  six  touches  stand  for  a leaf.  But  since 
the  animal  generally  admits  of  perfect  outline — since  its  form 
is  detached,  and  may  be  fully  represented,  its  sculpture  may 
be  more  complete  and  faithful  in  all  its  parts.  And  this  prin- 
ciple will  be  actually  found,  I believe,  to  guide  the  old  work 
men.  If  the  animal  form  be  in  a gargoyle,  incomplete,  and 
coming  out  of  a block  of  stone,  or  if  a head  only,  as  for  a boss 
9 


130 


THE  LAMP  OF  BEAUTY. 


or  other  such  partial  use,  its  sculpture  will  be  highly  abstract 
But  if  it  be  an  entire  animal,  as  a lizard,  or  a bird,  or  a 
squirrel,  peeping  among  leafage,  its  sculpture  will  be  much 
farther  carried,  and  I think,  if  small,  near  the  eye,  and  worked 
in  a fine  material,  may  rightly  be  carried  to  the  utmost  possi- 
ble completion.  Surely  we  cannot  wish  a less  finish  bestowed 
on  those  which  animate  the  mouldings  of  the  south  door  of 
the  cathedral  of  Florence ; nor  desire  that  the  birds  in  the 
capitals  of  the  Doge’s  palace  should  be  stripped  of  a single 
plume. 

XXXIV.  Under  these  limitations,  then,  I think  that  per- 
fect sculpture  may  be  made  a part  of  the  severest  architecture ; 
but  this  perfection  was  said  in  the  outset  to  be  dangerous.  It 
is  so  in  the  highest  degree;  for  the  moment  the  architect 
allows  himself  to  dwell  on  the  imitated  portions,  there  is  a 
chance  of  his  losing  sight  of  the  duty  of  his  ornament,  of  its 
business  as  a part  of  the  composition,  and  sacrificing  its  points 
of  shade  and  effect  to  the  delight  of  delicate  carving.  And 
then  he  is  lost.  His  architecture  has  become  a mere  frame- 
work for  the  setting  of  delicate  sculpture,  which  had  better 
be  all  taken  down  and  put  into  cabinets.  It  is  well,  there- 
fore, that  the  young  architect  should  be  taught  to  think  of 
imitative  ornament  as  of  the  extreme  of  grace  in  language  ; not 
to  be  regarded  at  first,  not  to  be  obtained  at  the  cost  of  pur- 
pose, meaning,  force,  or  conciseness,  yet,  indeed,  a perfection 
— the  least  of  all  perfections,  and  yet  the  crowning  one  of  all 
— one  which  by  itself,  and  regarded  in  itself,  is  an  architectu- 
ral coxcombry,  but  is  yet  the  sign  of  the  most  highly-trained 
mind  and  power  when  it  is  associated  with  others.  It  is  a 
safe  manner,  as  I think,  to  design  all  things  at  first  in  severe 
abstraction,  and  to  be  prepared,  if  need  were,  to  carry  them 
out  in  that  form  ; then  to  mark  the  parts  where  high  finish 
would  be  admissible,  to  complete  these  always  with  stern  ref- 
erence to  their  general  effect,  and  then  connect  them  by  a 
graduated  scale  of  abstraction  with  the  rest.  And  there  is 
one  safeguard  against  danger  in  this  process  on  which  J 
would  finally  insist.  Never  imitate  anything  but  natural 
forms,  and  those  the  noblest,  in  the  completed  parts.  The 


PLATE  XI. -(Page  131— Yol.  Y.) 

Balcony  in  the  Camto,  St  Benedetto,  Venice. 


THE  LAMP  OF  BEAUTY . 


131 


degradation  of  the  cinque  cento  manner  of  decoration  was  not 
owing  to  its  naturalism,  to  its  faithfulness  of  imitation,  but  to 
its  imitation  of  ugly,  i.e.  unnatural  things.  So  long  as  it  re- 
strained itself  to  sculpture  of  animals  and  flowers,  it  remained 
noble.  The  balcony,  on  the  opposite  page,  from  a house  in 
the  Campo  St,  Benedetto  at  Venice,  shows  one  of  the  earliest 
occurrences  of  the  cinque  cento  arabesque,  and  a fragment  of 
the  pattern  is  given  in  Plate  XII.  fig.  8.  It  is  but  the  arrest- 
ing upon  the  stone  work  of  a stem  or  two  of  the  living  flowers, 
which  are  rarely  wanting  in  the  window  above  (and  which,  by 
the  by,  the  French  and  Italian  peasantry  often  trellis  with  ex- 
quisite taste  about  their  casements).  This  arabesque,  relieved 
as  it  is  in  darkness  from  the  white  stone  by  the  stain  of  time, 
is  surely  both  beautiful  and  pure  ; and  as  long  as  the  renais- 
sance ornament  remained  in  such  forms  it  may  be  beheld  with 
undeserved  admiration.  But  the  moment  that  unnatural  ob- 
jects were  associated  with  these,  and  armor,  and  musical  in- 
struments, and  wild  meaningless  scrolls  and  curled  shields,  and 
other  such  fancies,  became  principal  in  its  subjects,  its  doom 
was  sealed,  and  with  it  that  of  the  architecture  of  the  world. 

XXXV.  III.  Our  final  inquiry  was  to  be  into  the  use  of 
color  as  associated  with  architectural  ornament. 

I do  not  feel  able  to  speak  with  any  confidence  respecting 
the  touching  of  sculpture  with  color.  I would  only  note  one 
point,  that  sculpture  is  the  representation  of  an  idea,  while 
architecture  is  itself  a real  thing.  The  idea  may,  as  I think, 
be  left  colorless,  and  colored  by  the  beholder’s  mind  : but  a 
reality  ought  to  have  reality  in  all  its  attributes  : its  color 
should  be  as  fixed  as  its  form.  I cannot,  therefore,  consider 
architecture  as  in  any  wise  perfect  without  color.  Farther,  as 
I have  above  noticed,  I think  the  colors  of  architecture  should 
be  those  of  natural  stones  ; partly  because  more  durable,  but 
also  because  more  perfect  and  graceful.  For  to  conquer  the 
harshness  and  deadness  of  tones  laid  upon  stone  or  on  gesso, 
needs  the  management  and  discretion  of  a true  painter  ; and 
on  this  co-operation  we  must  not  calculate  in  laying  down  rules 
for  general  practice.  If  Tintoret  or  Giorgione  are  at  hand, 
and  ask  us  for  a wall  to  paint,  we  will  alter  our  whole  design 


132 


THE  LAMP  OF  BEAUTY. 


for  their  sake,  and  become  their  servants  ; but  we  must,  as 
architects,  expect  the  aid  of  the  common  workman  only  ; and 
the  laying  of  color  by  a mechanical  hand,  and  its  toning  under 
a vulgar  eye,  are  far  more  offensive  than  rudeness  in  cutting  the 
stone.  The  latter  is  imperfection  only  ; the  former  deadness 
or  discordance.  At  the  best,  such  color  is  so  inferior  to  the 
lovely  and  mellow  hues  of  the  natural  stone,  that  it  is  wise  to 
sacrifice  some  of  the  intricacy  of  design,  if  by  so  doing  we 
may  employ  the  nobler  material.  And  if,  as  we  looked  to 
Nature  for  instruction  respecting  form,  we  look  to  her  also  to 
learn  the  management  of  color,  we  shall,  perhaps,  find  that  this 
sacrifice  of  intricacy  is  for  other  causes  expedient. 

XXXVI.  First,  then,  I think  that  in  making  this  reference 
we  are  to  consider  our  building  as  a kind  of  organized  creat- 
ure ; in  coloring  which  we  must  look  to  the  single  and  sep- 
arately organized  creatures  of  Nature,  not  to  her  landscape 
combinations.  Our  building,  if  it  is  well  composed,  is  one 
thing,  and  is  to  be  colored  as  Nature  would  color  one  thing — 
a shell,  a flower,  or  an  animal ; not  as  she  colors  groups  of 
things. 

And  the  first  broad  conclusion  we  shall  deduce  from  observ- 
ance of  natural  color  in  such  cases  will  be,  that  it  never  fol- 
lows form,  but  is  arranged  on  an  entirely  separate  system. 
What  mysterious  connection  there  may  be  between  the  shape 
of  the  spots  on  an  animal’s  skin  and  its  anatomical  system,  I 
do  not  know,  nor  even  if  such  a connection  has  in  any  wise 
been  traced:  but  to  the  eye  the  systems  are  entirely  separate, 
and  in  many  cases  that  of  color  is  accidentally  variable.  The 
stripes  of  a zebra  do  not  follow  the  lines  of  its  body  or  limbs, 
still  less  the  spots  of  a leopard.  In  the  plumage  of  birds, 
each  feather  bears  a part  of  the  pattern  which  is  arbitrarily 
carried  over  the  body,  having  indeed  certain  graceful  harmo- 
nies with  the  form,  diminishing  or  enlarging  in  directions 
which  sometimes  follow,  but  also  not  unfrequently  oppose,  the 
directions  of  its  muscular  lines.  "Whatever  harmonies  there 
may  be,  are  distinctly  like  those  of  two  separate  musical  parts, 
coinciding  here  and  there  only — never  discordant,  but  essen- 
tially different.  I hold  this,  then,  for  the  first  great  principle 


THE  LAMP  OF  BEAUTY. 


133 


of  architectural  color.  Let  it  be  visibly  independent  of  form. 
Never  paint  a column  with  vertical  lines,  but  always  cross  it.13 
Nevei  give  separate  mouldings  separate  colors  (I  know  this  is 
heresy,  but  I never  shrink  from  any  conclusions,  however  con- 
trary to  human  authority,  to  which  I am  led  by  observance  of 
natural  principles) ; and  in  sculptured  ornaments  I do  not 
paint  the  leaves  or  figures  (I  cannot  help  the  Elgin  frieze)  of 
one  color  and  their  ground  of  another,  but  vary  both  the 
ground  and  the  figures  with  the  same  harmony.  Notice  how 
Nature  does  it  in  a variegated  flower  ; not  one  leaf  red  and 
another  white,  but  a point  of  red  and  a zone  of  white,  or  what- 
ever it  may  be,  to  each.  In  certain  places  you  may  run  your 
two  systems  closer,  and  here  and  there  let  them  be  parallel  for 
a note  or  two,  but  see  that  the  colors  and  the  forms  coincide 
only  as  two  orders  of  mouldings  do  ; the  same  for  an  instant, 
but  each  holding  its  own  course.  So  single  members  may 
sometimes  have  single  colors : as  a bird’s  head  is  sometimes 
of  one  color  and  its  shoulders  another,  you  may  make  your 
capital  of  one  color  and  your  shaft  another ; but  in  general 
the  best  place  for  color  is  on  broad  surfaces,  not  on  the  points 
of  interest  in  form.  An  animal  is  mottled  on  its  breast  and 
back,  rarely  on  its  paws  or  about  its  eyes  ; so  put  your  varie- 
gation boldly  on  the  flat  wall  and  broad  shaft,  but  be  shy  of 
it  in  the  capital  and  moulding ; in  all  cases  it  is  a safe  rule  to 
simplify  color  when  form  is  rich,  and  vice  versa  ; and  I think 
it  would  be  well  in  general  to  carve  all  capitals  and  graceful 
ornaments  in  white  marble,  and  so  leave  them. 

XXXVH.  Independence  then  being  first  secured,  what  kind 
of  limiting  outlines  shall  we  adopt  for  the  system  of  color 
itself  ? 

I am  quite  sure  that  any  person  familiar  with  natural  ob- 
jects will  never  be  surprised  at  any  appearance  of  care  or  finish 
in  them.  That  is  the  condition  of  the  universe.  But  there  is 
cause  both  for  surprise  and  inquiry  whenever  we  see  anything 
like  carelessness  or  incompletion  : that  is  not  a common  condi- 
tion ; it  must  be  one  appointed  for  some  singular  purpose.  I 
believe  that  such  surprise  will  be  forcibly  felt  by  any  one  who? 
after  studying  carefully  the  lines  of  some  variegated  organic 


134 


THE  LAMP  OF  BEAUTY. 


form,  will  set  himself  to  copy  with  similar  diligence  those  oi 
its  colors.  The  boundaries  of  the  forms  he  will  assuredly, 
whatever  the  object,  have  found  drawn  with  a delicacy  and 
precision  which  no  human  hand  can  follow.  Those  of  its 
colors  he  will  find  in  many  cases,  though  governed  always  by 
a certain  rude  symmetry,  yet  irregular,  blotched,  imperfect, 
liable  to  all  kinds  of  accidents  and  awkwardnesses.  Look  at 
the  tracery  of  the  lines  on  a camp  shell,  and  see  how  oddly  and 
awkwardly  its  tents  are  pitched.  It  is  not  indeed  always  so  : 
there  is  occasionally,  as  in  the  eye  of  the  peacock’s  plume,  an 
apparent  precision,  but  still  a precision  far  inferior  to  that  of 
the  drawing  of  the  filaments  which  bear  that  lovely  stain ; and 
in  the  plurality  of  cases  a degree  of  looseness  and  variation; 
and,  still  more  singularly,  of  harshness  and  violence  in  arrange- 
ment, is  admitted  in  color  which  would  be  monstrous  in  form. 
Observe  the  difference  in  the  precision  of  a fish’s  scales  and  of 
the  spots  on  them. 

xxxvm.  Now,  why  it  should  be  that  color  is  best  seen 
under  these  circumstances  I wTill  not  here  endeavor  to  deter- 
mine ; nor  whether  the  lesson  we  are  to  learn  from  it  be  that 
it  is  God’s  will  that  all  manner  of  delights  should  never  be 
combined  in  one  thing.  But  the  fact  is  certain,  that  color  is 
always  by  Him  arranged  in  these  simple  or  rude  forms,  and  as 
certain  that,  therefore,  it  must  be  best  seen  in  them,  and  that 
we  shall  never  mend  by  refining  its  arrangements.  Experience 
teaches  us  the  same  thing.  Infinite  nonsense  has  been  written 
about  the  union  of  perfect  color  with  perfect  form.  They  never 
will,  never  can  be  united.  Color,  to  be  perfect,  mud  have  a 
soft  outline  or  a simple  one  : it  cannot  have  a refined  one  ; 
and  you  will  never  produce  a good  painted  window  with  good 
figure- drawing  in  it.  You  will  lose  perfection  of  color  as  you 
give  perfection  of  line.  Try  to  put  in  order  and  form  the 
colors  of  a piece  of  opal. 

XXXIX.  I conclude,  then,  that  all  arrangements  of  color, 
for  its  own  sake,  in  graceful  forms,  are  barbarous  ; and  that, 
to  paint  a color  pattern  with  the  lovely  lines  of  a Greek  leaf 
moulding,  is  an  utterly  savage  procedure.  I cannot  find  any- 
thing in  natural  color  like  this  : it  is  not  in  the  bond.  I find 


THE  LAMP  OF  BEAUTY. 


135 


it  in  all  natural  form — never  in  natural  color.  If,  then,  our 
architectural  color  is  to  be  beautiful  as  its  form  was,  by  being 
imitative,  we  are  limited  to  these  conditions — to  simple 
masses  of  it,  to  zones,  as  in  the  rainbow  and  the  zebra ; 
cloudings  and  ilamings,  as  in  marble  shells  and  plumage,  or 
spots  of  various  shapes  and  dimensions.  All  these  conditions 
are  susceptible  of  various  degrees  of  sharpness  and  delicacy, 
and  of  complication  in  arrangement.  The  zone  may  become 
a delicate  line,  and  arrange  itself  in  chequers  and  zig-zags. 
The  flaming  may  be  more  or  less  defined,  as  on  a tulip  leaf, 
and  may  at  last  be  represented  by  a triangle  of  color,  and 
arrange  itself  in  stars  or  other  shapes  ; the  spot  may  be  also 
graduated  into  a stain,  or  defined  into  a square  or  circle.  The 
most  exquisite  harmonies  may  be  composed  of  these  simple 
elements  : some  soft  and  full  of  flushed  and  melting  spaces 
of  color  ; others  piquant  and  sparkling,  or  deep  and  rich, 
formed  of  close  groups  of  the  fiery  fragments  : perfect  and 
lovely  proportion  may  be  exhibited  in  the  relation  of  their 
quantities,  infinite  invention  in  their  disposition  : but,  in  all 
cases,  their  shape  will  be  effective  only  as  it  determines  their 
quantity,  and  regulates  their  operation  on  each  other  ; points 
or  edges  of  one  being  introduced  between  breadths  of  others, 
and  so  on.  Triangular  and  barred  forms  are  therefore  con- 
venient, or  others  the  simplest  possible  ; leaving  the  pleasure 
of  the  spectator  to  be  taken  in  the  color,  and  in  that  only. 
Curved  outlines,  especially  if  refined,  deaden  the  color,  and 
confuse  the  mind.  Even  in  figure  painting  the  greatest 
colorists  have  either  melted  their  outline  away,  as  often 
Correggio  and  Rubens  ; or  purposely  made  their  masses  of  un- 
gainly shape,  as  Titian  ; or  placed  their  brightest  hues  in  cos- 
tume, where  they  could  get  quaint  patterns,  as  Veronese,  and 
especially  Angelico,  with  whom,  however,  the  absolute  virtue 
of  color  is  secondary  to  grace  of  line.  Hence,  he  never  uses 
the  blended  hues  of  Correggio,  like  those  on  the  wing  of  the 
little  Cupid,  in  the  “Venus  and  Mercury,”  but  always  the 
severest  type — the  peacock  plume.  Any  of  these  men  would 
have  looked  with  infinite  disgust  upon  the  leafage  and  scroll- 
work which  form  the  ground  of  color  in  our  modern  painted 


136 


THE  LAMP  OF  BEAUTY. 


windows,  and  yet  all  whom  I have  named  were  much  infected 
with  the  love  of  renaissance  designs.  We  must  also  allow  for 
the  freedom  of  the  painter’s  subject,  and  looseness  of  his 
associated  lines ; a pattern  being  severe  in  a picture,  which  is 
over  luxurious  upon  a building.  I believe,  therefore,  that  it 
is  impossible  to  be  over  quaint  or  angular  in  architectural 
coloring  ; and  thus  many  dispositions  wThich  I have  had  oc- 
casion to  reprobate  in  form,  are,  in  color,  the  best  that  can  be 
invented.  I have  always,  for  instance,  spoken  with  contempt 
of  the  Tudor  style,  for  this  reason,  that,  having  surrendered 
all  pretence  to  spaciousness  and  breadth, — having  divided  its 
surfaces  by  an  infinite  number  of  lines,  it  yet  sacrifices  the 
only  characters  which  can  make  lines  beautiful  ; sacrifices  all 
the  variety  and  grace  which  long  atoned  for  the  caprice  of 
the  Flamboyant,  and  adopts,  for  its  leading  feature,  an  en- 
tanglement of  cross  bars  and  verticals,  showing  about  as  much 
invention  or  skill  of  design  as  the  reticulation  of  the  brick- 
layer’s sieve.  Yet  this  very  reticulation  would  in  color  be 
highly  beautiful ; and  all  the  heraldry,  and  other  features 
which,  in  form,  are  monstrous,  may  be  delightful  as  themes 
of  color  (so  long  as  there  are  no  fluttering  or  over-twisted 
lines  in  them)  ; and  this  observe,  because,  when  colored,  they 
take  the  place  of  a mere  pattern,  and  the  resemblance  to 
nature,  which  could  not  be  found  in  their  sculptured  forms, 
is  found  in  their  piquant  variegation  of  other  surfaces.  There 
is  a beautiful  and  bright  bit  of  wall  painting  behind  the 
Duomo  of  Yerona,  composed  of  coats  of  arms,  whose  bear- 
ings are  balls  of  gold  set  in  bars  of  green  (altered  blue  ?)  and 
white,  with  cardinal’s  hats  in  alternate  squares.  This  is  of 
course,  however,  fit  only  for  domestic  work.  The  front  of 
the  Doge’s  palace  at  Venice  is  the  purest  and  most  chaste 
model  that  I can  name  (but  one)  of  the  fit  application  of  color 
to  public  buildings.  The  sculpture  and  mouldings  are  all 
white  ; but  the  wall  surface  is  chequered  with  marble  blocks 
of  pale  rose,  the  chequers  being  in  no  wise  harmonized,  or 
fitted  to  the  forms  of  the  windows  ; but  looking  as  if  the  sur- 
face had  been  completed  first,  and  the  windows  cut  out  of  it. 
In  Plate  XU  fig.  2 the  reader  will  see  two  of  the  patterns 


THE  LAMP  OF  BEAUTY. 


137 


used  in  green  and  white,  on  the  columns  of  San  Michele  of 
Lucca,  every  column  having  a different  design.  Both  are 
beautiful,  but  the  upper  one  certainly  the  best.  Yet  in  sculpt- 
ure its  lines  would  have  been  perfectly  barbarous,  and  those 
even  of  the  lower  not  enough  refined. 

XL.  Restraining  ourselves,  therefore,  to  the  use  of  such 
simple  patterns,  so  far  forth  as  our  color  is  subordinate  either 
to  architectural  structure,  or  sculptural  form,  we  have  yet  one 
more  manner  of  ornamentation  to  add  to  our  general  means 
of  effect,  monochrome  design,  the  intermediate  condition  be- 
tween coloring  and  carving.  The  relations  of  the  entire  sys- 
tem of  architectural  decoration  may  then  be  thus  expressed. 

1.  Organic  form  dominant.  True,  independent  sculpture,  and 

alto-relievo  ; rich  capitals,  and  mouldings  ; to  be  elaborate 
in  completion  of  form,  not  abstract,  and  either  to  be  left 
in  pure  white  marble,  or  most  cautiously  touched  with 
color  in  points  and  borders  only,  in  a system  not  concur- 
rent with  their  forms. 

2.  Organic  form  sub-dominant.  Basso-relievo  or  intaglio.  To 

be  more  abstract  in  proportion  to  the  reduction  of  depth  ; 
to  be  also  more  rigid  and  simple  in  contour  ; to  be 
touched  with  color  more  boldly  and  in  an  increased  de- 
gree, exactly  in  proportion  to  the  reduced  depth  and  ful- 
ness of  form,  but  still  in  a system  non-concurrent  with 
their  forms. 

3.  Organic  form  abstracted  to  outline.  Monochrome  design, 

still  farther  reduced  to  simplicity  of  contour,  and  there- 
fore admitting  for  the  first  time  the  color  to  be  concur- 
rent with  its  outlines  ; that  is  to  say,  as  its  name  imports, 
the  entire  figure  to  be  detached  in  one  color  from  a 
ground  of  another. 

4 Organic  forms  entirely  lost.  Geometrical  patterns  or  vari- 
able cloudings  in  the  most  vivid  color. 

On  the  opposite  side  of  this  scale,  ascending  from  the  color 
pattern,  I would  place  the  various  forms  of  painting  which 
may  be  associated  with  architecture  : primarily,  and  as  most 


138 


THE  LAMP  OF  BEAUTY. 


fit  for  such  purpose,  the  mosaic,  highly  abstract  in  treatment, 
and  introducing  brilliant  color  in  masses ; the  Madonna  oi 
'Torcello  being,  as  I think,  the  noblest  type  of  the  manner,  and 
the  Baptistery  of  Parma  the  richest : next,  the  purely  decora- 
tive fresco,  like  that  of  the  Arena  Chapel ; finally,  the  fresco 
becoming  principal,  as  in  the  Vatican  and  Sistine.  But  I can- 
not, with  any  safety,  follow  the  principles  of  abstraction  in 
this  pictorial  ornament ; since  the  noblest  examples  of  it 
appear  to  me  to  owe  their  architectural  applicability  to  their 
archaic  manner  ; and  I think  that  the  abstraction  and  admira- 
ble simplicity  which  render  them  fit  media  of  the  most  splen- 
did coloring,  cannot  be  recovered  by  a voluntary  condescen- 
sion. The  Byzantines  themselves  would  not,  I think,  if  they 
could  have  drawn  the  figure  better,  have  used  it  for  a color 
decoration  ; and  that  use,  as  peculiar  to  a condition  of  child- 
hood, however  noble  and  full  of  promise,  cannot  be  included 
among  those  modes  of  adornment  which  are  now  legitimate  or 
even  possible.  There  is  a difficult}"  in  the  management  of  the 
painted  window  for  the  same  reason,  which  has  not  yet  been 
met,  and  we  must  conquer  that  first,  before  we  can  venture  to 
consider  the  wall  as  a painted  window  on  a large  scale.  Pic- 
torial subject,  without  such  abstraction,  becomes  necessarily 
principal,  or,  at  all  events,  ceases  to  be  the  architect’s  concern  ; 
its  plan  must  be  left  to  the  painter  after  the  completion  of  the 
building,  as  in  the  works  of  Veronese  and  Giorgione  on  the 
palaces  of  Venice. 

XLI.  Pure  architectural  decoration,  then,  may  be  consid- 
ered as  limited  to  the  four  kinds  above  specified  ; of  which 
each  glides  almost  imperceptibly  into  the  other.  Thus,  the 
Elgin  frieze  is  a monochrome  in  a state  of  transition  to  sculpt- 
ure, retaining,  as  I think,  the  half-cast  skin  too  long.  Of 
pure  monochrome,  I have  given  an  example  in  Plate  VI.,  from 
the  noble  front  of  St.  Michele  of  Lucca.  It  contains  forty 
such  arches,  all  covered  with  equally  elaborate  ornaments,  en- 
tirely drawn  by  cutting  out  their  ground  to  about  the  depth 
of  an  inch  in  the  flat  white  marble,  and  filling  the  spaces  with 
pieces  of  green  serpentine  ; a most  elaborate  mode  of  sculpt- 
ure, requiring  excessive  care  and  precision  in  the  fitting  of 


THE  LAMP  OF  BEAUTY. 


139 


flie  edges,  and  of  course  double  work,  the  same  line  needing 
to  be  cut  both  in  the  marble  and  serpentine.  The  excessive  sim- 
plicity of  the  forms  will  be  at  once  perceived  ; the  eyes  of  the 
figures  of  animals,  for  instance,  being  indicated  only  by  a 
round  dot,  formed  by  a little  inlet  circle  of  serpentine,  about 
half  an  inch  over  : but,  though  simple,  they  admit  often  much 
grace  of  curvature,  as  in  the  neck  of  the  bird  seen  above  the 
right  hand  pillar.14  The  pieces  of  serpentine  have  fallen  out 
in  many  places,  giving  the  black  shadows,  as  seen  under  the 
horseman’s  arm  and  bird’s  neck,  and  in  the  semi-circular  line 
round  the  arch,  once  filled  with  some  pattern.  It  would  have 
illustrated  my  point  better  to  have  restored  the  lost  portions, 
but  I always  draw  a thing  exactly  as  it  is,  hating  restoration 
of  any  kind  ; and  I would  especially  direct  the  reader’s  atten- 
tion to  the  completion  of  the  forms  in  the  sculptured  orna- 
ment of  the  marble  cornices,  as  opposed  to  the  abstraction  of 
the  monochrome  figures,  of  the  ball  and  cross  patterns  between 
the  arches,  and  of  the  triangular  ornament  round  the  arch  on 
the  left. 

XLII.  I have  an  intense  love  for  these  monochrome  figures, 
owing  to  their  wonderful  life  and  spirit  in  all  the  works  on 
which  I found  them  ; nevertheless,  I believe  that  the  exces- 
sive degree  of  abstraction  which  they  imply  necessitates  our 
placing  them  in  the  rank  of  a progressive  or  imperfect  art, 
and  that  a perfect  building  should  rather  be  composed  of  the 
highest  sculpture  (organic  form  dominant  and  sub-dominant), 
associated  with  pattern  colors  on  the  flat  or  broad  surfaces. 
And  we  find,  in  fact,  that  the  cathedral  of  Pisa,  which  is  a 
higher  type  than  that  of  Lucca,  exactly  follows  this  condition, 
the  color  being  put  in  geometrical  patterns  on  its  surfaces, 
and  animal-forms  and  lovely  leafage  used  in  the  sculptured 
cornices  and  pillars.  And  I think  that  the  grace  of  the  carved 
forms  is  best  seen  when  it  is  thus  boldly  opposed  to  severe 
traceries  of  color,  while  the  color  itself  is,  as  we  have  seen, 
always  most  piquant  when  it  is  put  into  sharp  angular  ar- 
rangements. Thus  the  sculpture  is  approved  and  set  off  by  the 
color,  and  the  color  seen  to  the  best  advantage  in  its  opposition 
both  to  the  whiteness  and  the  grace  of  the  carved  marble. 


140 


THE  LAMP  OF  BEAUTY. 


XLIH.  In  the  course  of  this  and  the  preceding  chapters,  1 
have  now  separately  enumerated  most  of  the  conditions  of 
Power  and  Beauty,  which  in  the  outset  I stated  to  he  the 
grounds  of  the  deepest  impressions  with  which  architecture 
could  affect  the  human  mind  ; hut  I would  ask  permission  to 
recapitulate  them  in  order  to  see  if  there  he  any  building 
wrhich  I may  offer  as  an  example  of  the  unison,  in  such  man- 
ner as  is  possible,  of  them  all.  Glancing  hack,  then,  to  the 
beginning  of  the  third  chapter,  and  introducing  in  their  place 
the  conditions  incidentally  determined  in  the  two  previous 
sections,  we  shall  have  the  following  list  of  noble  characters  : 

Considerable  size,  exhibited  by  simple  terminal  lines  (Chap. 
III.  § 6).  Projection  towards  the  top  (§  7).  Breadth  of  flat 
surface  (§  8).  Square  compartments  of  that  surface  (§  9). 
Varied  and  visible  masonry  (§11).  Vigorous  depth  of  shadow 
(§  13),  exhibited  especially  by  pierced  traceries  (§  18).  Varied 
proportion  in  ascent  (Chap.  IV.  § 28).  Lateral  symmetry  (§  28). 
Sculpture  most  delicate  at  the  base  (Chap.  I.  § 12).  Enriched 
quantity  of  ornament  at  the  top  (§  13).  Sculpture  abstract  in 
inferior  ornaments  and  mouldings  (Chap.  IV.  § 31),  complete 
in  animal  forms  (§  33).  Both  to  be  executed  in  white  marble 
(§  40).  Vivid  color  introduced  in  flat  geometrical  patterns 
(§  39),  and  obtained  by  the  use  of  naturally  colored  stone  (§  35). 

These  characteristics  occur  more  or  less  in  different  build- 
ings, some  in  one  and  some  in  another.  But  all  together,  and 
all  in  their  highest  possible  relative  degrees,  they  exist,  as  far 
as  I know,  only  in  one  building  in  the  world,  the  Campanile 
of  Giotto  at  Florence.  The  drawing  of  the  tracery  of  its 
upper  story,  which  heads  this  chapter,  rude  as  it  is,  will  never- 
theless give  the  reader  some  better  conception  of  that  tower’s 
magnificence  than  the  thin  outlines  in  which  it  is  usually 
portrayed.  In  its  first  appeal  to  the  stranger’s  eye  there  is 
something  unpleasing;  a mingling,  as  it  seems  to  him,  of  over, 
severity  with  over  minuteness.  But  let  him  give  it  time,  as  he 
should  to  all  other  consummate  art.  I remember  well  how,  when 
a boy,  I used  to  despise  that  Campanile,  and  think  it  meanly 
smooth  and  finished.  But  I have  since  lived  beside  it  many  a 
day,  and  looked  out  upon  it  from  my  windows  by  sunlight  and 


THE  LAMP  OF  BEAUTY. 


141 


moonlight,  and  I shall  not  soon  forget  how  profound  and 
gloomy  appeared  to  me  the  savageness  of  the  Northern  Gothic, 
when  I afterwards  stood,  for  the  first  time,  beneath  the  front 
of  Salisbury.  The  contrast  is  indeed  strange,  if  it  could  be 
quickly  felt,  between  the  rising  of  those  grey  walls  out  of  their 
quiet  swarded  space,  like  dark  and  barren  rocks  out  of  a green 
lake,  with  their  rude,  mouldering,  rough-grained  shafts,  and 
triple  lights,  without  tracery  or  other  ornament  than  the  mar- 
tins’ nests  in  the  height  of  them,  and  that  bright,  smooth, 
sunny  surface  of  glowing  jasper,  those  spiral  shafts  and  fairy 
traceries,  so  white,  so  faint,  so  crystalline,  that  their  slight  shapes 
are  hardly  traced  in  darkness  on  the  pallor  of  the  Eastern  sky, 
that  serene  height  of  mountain  alabaster,  colored  like  a morn- 
ing cloud,  and  chased  like  a sea  shell.  And  if  this  be,  as  I be- 
lieve it,  the  model  and  mirror  of  perfect  architecture,  is  there 
not  something  to  be  learned  by  looking  back  to  the  early  life 
of  him  who  raised  it  ? I said  that  the  PowTer  of  human  mind 
had  its  growth  in  the  Wilderness  ; much  more  must  the  love 
and  the  conception  of  that  beauty,  whose  every  line  and  hue 
we  have  seen  to  be,  at  the  best,  a faded  image  of  God’s  daily 
work,  and  an  arrested  ray  of  some  star  of  creation,  be  given 
chiefly  in  the  places  wdiich  He  has  gladdened  by  planting  there 
the  fir  tree  and  the  pine.  Not  within  the  walls  of  Florence, 
but  among  the  far  away  fields  of  her  lilies,  was  the  child  trained 
who  was  to  raise  that  headstone  of  Beauty  above  the  towers 
of  watch  and  war.  Bern  ember  all  that  he  became ; count  the 
sacred  thoughts  with  which  he  filled  the  heart  of  Italy ; ask 
j those  who  followed  him  what  they  learned  at  his  feet ; and  when 
you  have  numbered  his  labors,  and  received  their  testimony,  if 
it  seem  to  you  that  God  had  verily  poured  out  upon  this  His 
I servant  no  common  nor  restrained  portion  of  His  Spirit,  and 
i that  he  was  indeed  a king  among  the  children  of  men,  remem- 
ber also  that  the  legend  upon  his  crown  was  that  of  David’s 
•4 1 took  thee  from  the  sheepcote,  and  from  following  the  sheep. 51 


14:2 


THE  LAMP  OF  LIFE. 


CHAPTER  V. 

THE  LAMP  OF  LIFE. 

I.  Among  the  countless  analogies  by  which  the  nature  and 
relations  of  the  human  soul  are  illustrated  in  the  material 
creation,  none  are  more  striking  than  the  impressions  insep- 
arably connected  with  the  active  and  dormant  states  of  matter. 
I have  elsewhere  endeavored  to  show,  that  no  inconsiderable 
part  of  the  essential  characters  of  Beauty  depended  on  the 
expression  of  vital  energy  in  organic  things,  or  on  the  subjec- 
tion to  such  energy,  of  things  naturally  passive  and  powerless. 
I need  not  here  repeat,  of  what  was  then  advanced,  more  than 
the  statement  which  I believe  will  meet  with  general  accept- 
ance, that  things  in  other  respects  alike,  as  in  their  substance, 
or  uses,  or  outward  forms,  are  noble  or  ignoble  in  proportion 
to  the  fulness  of  the  life  which  either  they  themselves  enjoy, 
or  of  whose  action  they  bear  the  evidence,  as  sea  sands  are 
made  beautiful  by  their  bearing  the  seal  of  the  motion  of  the 
waters.  And  this  is  especially  true  of  all  objects  which  bear 
upon  them  the  impress  of  the  highest  order  of  creative  life, 
that  is  to  say,  of  the  mind  of  man  : they  become  noble  or  ig- 
noble in  proportion  to  the  amount  of  the  energy  of  that  mind 
which  has  visibly  been  employed  upon  them.  But  most  pe- 
culiarly and  imperatively  does  the  rule  hold  with  respect  to 
the  creations  of  Architecture,  which  being  properly  capable 
of  no  other  life  than  this,  and  being  not  essentially  composed 
of  things  pleasant  in  themselves, — as  music  of  sweet  sounds, 
or  painting  of  fair  colors,  but  of  inert  substance, — depend, 
for  their  dignity  and  pleasurableness  in  the  utmost  degree, 
upon  the  vivid  expression  of  the  intellectual  life  which  has 
been  concerned  in  their  production. 

H.  Now  in  all  other  kind  of  energies  except  that  of  man’s 
mind,  there  is  no  question  as  to  what  is  life,  and  what  is  not. 
Vital  sensibility,  whether  vegetable  or  animal,  may,  indeed,  be 
reduced  to  so  great  feebleness,  as  to  render  its  existence  a 
matter  of  question,  but  when  it  is  evident  at  all,  it  is  evident 


THE  LAMP  OF  LIFE. 


143 


as  such  : there  is  no  mistaking  any  imitation  or  pretence  of  it 
for  the  life  itself  ; no  mechanism  nor  galvanism  can  take  its 
place  ; nor  is  any  resemblance  of  it  so  striking  as  to  involve 
even  hesitation  in  the  judgment ; although  many  occur  which 
the  human  imagination  takes  pleasure  in  exalting,  without  for 
an  instant  losing  sight  of  the  real  nature  of  the  dead  things  it 
animates  ; but  rejoicing  rather  in  its  own  excessive  life,  which 
puts  gesture  into  clouds,  and  joy  into  waves,  and  voices  into 
rocks. 

III.  But  when  we  begin  to  be  concerned  with  the  energies 
of  man,  we  find  ourselves  instantly  dealing  with  a double  creat- 
ure. Most  part  of  his  being  seems  to  have  a fictitious  coun- 
terpart, which  it  is  at  his  peril  if  he  do  not  cast  off  and  deny. 
Thus  he  has  a true  and  false  (otherwise  called  a living  and 
dead,  or  a feigned  or  unfeigned)  faith.  He  has  a true  and  a 
false  hope,  a true  and  a false  charity,  and,  finally,  a true  and  a 
false  life.  His  true  life  is  like  that  of  lower  organic  beings, 
the  independent  force  by  which  he  moulds  and  governs  exter- 
nal things  ; it  is  a force  of  assimilation  which  converts  every- 
thing around  him  into  food,  or  into  instruments  ; and  which, 
however  humbly  or  obediently  it  may  listen  to  or  follow  the 
guidance  of  superior  intelligence,  never  forfeits  its  own 
authority  as  a judging  principle,  as  a will  capable  either  of 
obeying  or  rebelling.  His  false  life  is,  indeed,  but  one  of  the 
conditions  of  death  or  stupor,  but  it  acts,  even  when  it  cannot 
be  said  to  animate,  and  is  not  always  easily  known  from  the 
true.  It  is  that  life  of  custom  and  accident  in  which  many  of 
us  pass  much  of  our  time  in  the  world  ; that  life  in  which  we 
do  what  we  have  not  purposed,  and  speak  what  we  do  not 
mean,  and  assent  to  what  we  do  not  understand ; that  life 
which  is  overlaid  by  the  weight  of  things  external  to  it,  and  is 
moulded  by  them,  instead  of  assimilating  them  ; that,  which 
instead  of  growing  and  blossoming  under  any  wholesome  dew, 
is  crystallised  over  with  it,  as  with  hoar  frost,  and  becomes  to 
the  true  life  what  an  arborescence  is  to  a tree,  a candied 
agglomeration  of  thoughts  and  habits  foreign  to  it,  brittle, 
obstinate,  and  icy,  which  can  neither  bend  nor  grow,  but 
must  be  crushed  and  broken  to  bits,  if  it  stand  in  our  way 


144 


THE  LAMP  OF  LIFE. 


All  men  are  liable  to  be  in  some  degree  frost-bitten  in  this 
sort ; all  are  partly  encumbered  and  crusted  over  with  idle 
matter  ; only,  if  they  have  real  life  in  them,  they  are  always 
breaking  this  bark  away  in  noble  rents,  until  it  becomes,  like 
the  black  strips  upon  the  birch  tree,  only  a witness  of  their 
own  inward  strength.  But,  with  all  the  efforts  that  the  best 
men  make,  much  of  their  being  passes  in  a kind  of  dream,  in 
which  they  indeed  move,  and  play  their  parts  sufficiently,  to 
the  eyes  of  their  fellow-dreamers,  but  have  no  clear  conscious- 
ness of  what  is  around  them,  or  within  them  ; blind  to  the 
one,  insensible  to  the  other,  vwOpoi.  I would  not  press  the 
definition  into  its  darker  application  to  the  dull  heart  and 
heavy  ear  ; I have  to  do  with  it  only  as  it  refers  to  the  too  fre- 
quent condition  of  natural  existence,  whether  of  nations  or  in- 
dividuals, settling  commonly  upon  them  in  proportion  to  their 
age.  The  life  of  a nation  is  usually,  like  the  flow  of  a Java 
stream,  first  bright  and  fierce,  then  languid  and  covered,  at 
last  advancing  only  by  the  tumbling  over  and  over  of  its  frozen 
blocks.  And  that  last  condition  is  a sad  one  to  look  upon. 
All  the  steps  are  marked  most  clearly  in  the  arts,  and  in  Archi- 
tecture more  than  in  any  other  ; for  it,  being  especially  de- 
pendent, as  we  have  just  said,  on  the  warmth  of  the  true  life, 
is  also  peculiarly  sensible  of  the  hemlock  cold  of  the  false  ; 
and  I do  not  know  anything  more  oppressive,  when  the  mind 
is  once  awakened  to  its  characteristics,  than  the  aspect  of  a 
dead  architecture.  The  feebleness  of  childhood  is  full  of 
promise  and  of  interest, — the  struggle  of  imperfect  knowledge 
full  of  energy  and  continuity, — but  to  see  impotence  and  ri- 
gidity settling  upon  the  form  of  the  developed  man  ; to  see 
the  types  which  once  had  the  die  of  thought  struck  fresh 
upon  them,  worn  flat  by  over  use  ; to  see  the  shell  of  the 
living  creature  in  its  adult  form,  when  its  colors  are  faded, 
and  its  inhabitant  perished, — this  is  a sight  more  humiliat- 
ing, more  melancholy,  than  the  vanishing  of  all  knowledge, 
and  the  return  to  confessed  and  helpless  infancy. 

Nay,  it  is  to  be  wished  that  such  return  were  always  possi- 
ble. There  would  be  hope  if  we  could  change  palsy  into 
puerility  ; but  I know  not  how  far  we  can  become  children 


TEE  LAMP  OF  LIFE. 


145 


again,  and  renew  our  lost  life.  Tlie  stirring  which  has  taken 
place  in  our  architectural  aim*.  and  interests  within  these  few 
years,  is  thought  by  many  to  be  full  of  promise  : I trust  it  is,' 
but  it  has  a sickly  look  to  me.  I cannot  tell  whether  it  be 
indeed  a springing  of  seed  or  a shaking  among  bones ; and  I 
do  not  think  the  time  will  be  lost  which  I ask  the  reader  to 
spend  in  the  inquiry,  how  far  all  that  we  have  hitherto  ascer- 
tained or  conjectured  to  be  the  best  in  principle,  may  be  for- 
mally practised  without  the  spirit  or  the  vitality  which  alone 
could  give  it  influence,  value,  or  delightfulness. 

IY.  Now,  in  the  first  place — and  this  is  rather  an  important 
point — it  is  no  sign  of  deadness  in  a present  art  that  it  borrows 
or  imitates,  but  only  if  it  borrows  without  paying  interest,  or 
if  if  imitates  without  choice.  The  art  of  a great  nation,  which 
is  developed  without  any  acquaintance  with  nobler  examples 
than  its  own  early  efforts  furnish,  exhibits  always  the  most 
consistent  and  comprehensible  growth,  and  perhaps  is  re- 
garded usually  as  peculiarly  venerable  in  its  self-origination. 
But  there  is  something  to  my  mind  more  majestic  yet  in  the 
life  of  an  architecture  like  that  of  the  Lombards,  rude  and  in- 
fantine in  itself,  and  surrounded  by  fragments  of  a nobler  art 
of  which  it  is  quick  in  admiration  and  ready  in  imitation,  and 
yet  so  strong  in  its  own  new  instincts  that  it  re-constructs  and 
re-arranges  every  fragment  that  it  copies  or  borrows  into  har- 
mony with  its  own  thoughts, — a harmony  at  first  disjointed 
and  awkward,  but  completed  in  the  end,  and  fused  into  per- 
fect organisation  ; all  the  borrowed  elements  being  subordi- 
nated to  its  own  primal,  unchanged  life.  I do  not  know  any 
sensation  more  exquisite  than  the  discovering  of  the  evidence 
of  this  magnificent  struggle  into  independent  existence  ; the 
detection  of  the  borrowed  thoughts,  nay,  the  finding  of  the  ac- 
tual blocks  and  stones  carved  by  other  hands  and  in  other  ages, 
wrought  into  the  new  walls,  with  a new  expression  and  purpose 
given  to  them,  like  the  blocks  of  unsubdued  rocks  (to  go  back 
to  our  former  simile)  which  we  find  in  the  heart  of  the  lava 
current,  great  witnesses  to  the  power  -which  has  fused  all  but 
those  calcined  fragments  into  the  mass  of  its  homogeneous 
fire.  - ..  ..  •*  7.7, 


10 


146 


THE  LAMP  OF  LIFE. 


V.  It  will  be  asked,  How  is  imitation  to  be  rendered  health., 
and  vital  ? Unhappily,  while  it  is  easy  to  enumerate  the  signs 
of  life,  it  is  impossible  to  define  or  to  communicate  life  ; and 
while  every  intelligent  writer  on  Art  has  insisted  on  the  differ- 
ence between  the  copying  found  in  an  advancing  or  recedent 
period,  none  have  been  able  to  communicate,  in  the  slightest 
degree,  the  force  of  vitality  to  the  copyist  over  whom  they 
might  have  influence.  Yet  it  is  at  least  interesting,  if  not 
profitable,  to  note  that  two  very  distinguishing  characters  ol 
vital  imitation  are,  its  Frankness  and  its  Audacity  ; its  Frank- 
ness is  especially  singular  ; there  is  never  any  effort  to  con- 
ceal the  degree  of  the  sources  of  its  borrowing.  Raffaelle 
carries  off  a whole  figure  from  Masaccio,  or  borrows  an  entire 
composition  from  Perugino,  with  as  much  tranquillity  and 
simplicity  of  innocence  as  a young  Spartan  pickpocket ; and 
the  architect  of  a Romanesque  basilica  gathered  his  columns 
and  capitals  where  he  could  find  them,  as  an  ant  picks  up 
sticks.  There  is  at  least  a presumption,  when  we  find  this 
frank  acceptance,  that  there  is  a sense  within  the  mind  of 
power  capable  of  transforming  and  renewing  whatever  it 
adopts  ; and  too  conscious,  too  exalted,  to  fear  the  accusation 
of  plagiarism, — too  certain  that  it  can  prove,  and  has  proved, 
its  independence,  to  be  afraid  of  expressing  its  homage  to 
what  it  admires  in  the  most  open  and  indubitable  way  ; and 
the  necessary  consequence  of  this  sense  of  power  is  the  other 
sign  I have  named— the  Audacity  of  treatment  when  it  finds 
treatment  necessary,  the  unhesitating  and  sweeping  sacrifice 
of  precedent  where  precedent  becomes  inconvenient.  For  in- 
stance, in  the  characteristic  forms  of  Italian  Romanesque,  in 
which  the  hypaethral  portion  of  the  heathen  temple  was  re- 
placed by  the  towering  nave,  and  where,  in  consequence,  the 
pediment  of  the  wrest  front  became  divided  into  three  portions, 
of  which  the  central  one,  like  the  apex  of  a ridge  of  sloping 
strata  lifted  by  a sudden  fault,  was  broken  away  from  and 
raised  above  the  wings  ; there  remained  at  the  extremities  of 
the  aisles  two  triangular  fragments  of  pediment,  which  could 
not  now  be  filled  by  any  of  the  modes  of  decoration  adapted 
for  the  unbroken  space  ; and  the  difficulty  became  greater 


THE  LAMP  OF  LIFE. 


m 

when  tlie  central  portion  of  the  front  was  occupied  by  colun\ 
nar  ranges,  which  could  not,  without  painful  abruptness,  ter- 
minate short  of  the  extremities  of  the  wings.  I know  not 
what  expedient  would  have  been  adopted  by  architects  who 
had  much  respect  for  precedent,  under  such  circumstances, 
but  it  certainly  wTould  not  have  been  that  of  the  Pisan, — to 
continue  the  range  of  columns  into  the  pedimental  space, 
shortening  them  to  its  extremity  until  the  shaft  of  the  last 
column  vanished  altogether,  and  there  remained  only  iis  capi- 
tal resting  in  the  angle  on  its  basic  plinth.  I raise  no  ques- 
tion at  present  whether  this  arrangement  be  graceful  or  other- 
wise ; I allege  it  only  as  an  instance  of  boldness  almost  without 
a parallel,  casting  aside  every  received  principle  that  stood  in 
its  way,  and  struggling  through  every  discordance  and  diffi- 
culty to  the  fulfilment  of  its  own  instincts. 

VI.  Frankness,  however,  is  in  itself  no  excuse  for  repetition, 
nor  audacity  for  innovation,  when  the  one  is  indolent  and  the 
other  unwise.  Nobler  and  surer  signs  of  vitality  must  be 
sought, — signs  independent  alike  of  the  decorative  or  original 
character  of  the  style,  and  constant  in  every  style  that  is  de- 
terminedly progressive. 

Of  these,  one  of  the  most  important  I believe  to  be  a cer- 
tain neglect  or  contempt  of  refinement  in  execution,  or,  at  all 
events,  a visible  subordination  of  execution  to  conception, 
commonly  involuntary,  but  not  unfrequently  intentional. 
This  is  a point,  however,  on  which,  while  I speak  confidently, 
I must  at  the  same  time  reservedly  and  carefully,  as  there 
would  otherwise  be  much  chance  of  my  being  dangerously 
misunderstood.  It  has  been  truly  observed  and  well  stated 
by  Lord  Lindsay,  that  the  best  designers  of  Italy  were  also 
the  most  careful  in  their  workmanship  ; and  that  the  stability 
and  finish  of  their  masonry,  mosaic,  or  other  work  whatsoever, 
were  always  perfect  in  proportion  to  the  apparent  improbabil- 
ity of  the  great  designers  condescending  to  the  care  of  details 
among  us  so  despised.  Not  only  do  I fully  admit  and  re-as- 
sert  this  most  important  fact,  but  I would  insist  upon  perfect 
and  most  delicate  finish  in  its  right  place,  as  a characteristic 
of  all  the  highest  schools  of  architecture,  as  much  as  it  is 


148 


THE  LAMP  OF  LIFE. 


those  of  painting.  But  on  the  other  hand,  as  perfect  finish 
belongs  to  the  perfected  art,  a progressive  finish  belongs  to 
progressive  art ; and  I do  not  think  that  any  more  fatal  sign 
of  a stupor  or  numbness  settling  upon  that  undeveloped  aid 
could  possibly  be  detected,  than  that  it  had  been  taken  aback 
by  its  own  execution,  and  that  the  workmanship  had  gone 
ahead  of  the  design  ; while,  even  in  my  admission  of  absolute 
finish  in  the  right  place,  as  an  attribute  of  the  perfected 
school,  I must  reserve  to  myself  the  right  of  answering  in  my 
own  way  the  two  very  important  questions,  what  is  finish  ? 
and  what  is  its  right  place  ? 

VII.  But  in  illustrating  either  of  these  points,  we  must 
remember  that  the  correspondence  of  workmanship  with 
thought  is,  in  existent  examples,  interfered  with  by  the  adop- 
tion of  the  designs  of  an  advanced  period  by  the  workmen  of 
a rude  one.  All  the  beginnings  of  Christian  architecture  are 
of  this  kind*  and  the  necessary  consequence  is  of  course  an 
increase  of  the  visible  interval  between  the  power  of  realisa- 
tion and  the  beauty  of  the  idea.  We  have  at  first  an  imita- 
tion, almost  savage  in  its  rudeness,  of  a classical  design ; as 
the  art  advances,  the  design  is  modified  by  a mixture  of 
Gothic  grotesqueness,  and  the  execution  more  complete,  until 
a harmony  is  established  between  the  two,  in  which  balance 
they  advance  to  new  perfection.  Nowt  during  the  whole 
period  in  which  the  ground  is  being  recovered,  there  will  be 
found  in  the  living  architecture  marks  not  to  be  mistaken,  of 
intense  impatience  ; a struggle  towards  something  unattained, 
which  causes  all  minor  points  of  handling  to  be  neglected  ; 
and  a restless  disdain  of  all  qualities  which  appear  either  to 
confess  contentment  or  to  require  a time  and  care  which 
might  be  better  spent.  And,  exactly  as  a good  and  earnest 
student  of  drawing  will  not  lose  time  in  ruling  lines  or  finish- 
ing backgrounds  about  studies  which,  while  they  have  an- 
swered his  immediate  purpose,  he  knows  to  be  imperfect  and 
inferior  to  what  he  will  do  hereafter, — so  the  vigor  of  a true 
school  of  early  architecture,  which  is  either  working  under 
the  influence  of  high  example  or  which  is  itself  in  a state  of 
rapid  development,  is  very  curiously  traceable,  among  other 


PLATE  XII.— (Page  149-Vol.  V.) 

Fragments  from  Abbeville,  Lucca.  Venice,  and  Pisa. 


THE  LAMP  OF  LIFE. 


149 


signs,  in  the  contempt  of  exact  symmetry  and  measurement, 
which  in  dead  architecture  are  the  most  painful  necessities. 

Yin.  In  Plate  XII.  fig.  1 I have  given  a most  singular  in- 
stance  both  of  rude  execution  and  defied  symmetry,  in  the 
little  pillar  and  spandril  from  a panel  decoration  under  the 
pulpit  of  St.  Mark’s  at  Venice.  The  imperfection  (not  merely 
simplicity,  but  actual  rudeness  and  ugliness)  of  the  leaf  orna- 
ment will  strike  the  eye  at  once  : this  is  general  in  works  of 
the  time,  but  it  is  not  so  common  to  find  a capital  which  has 
been  so  carelessly  cut ; its  imperfect  volutes  being  pushed  up 
one  side  far  higher  than  on  the  other,  and  contracted  on  that 
side,  an  additional  drill  hole  being  put  in  to  fill  the  space  ; 
besides  this,  the  member  a,  of  the  mouldings,  is  a roll  where 
it  follows  the  arch,  and  a flat  fillet  at  a ; the  one  being  slurred 
into  the  other  at  the  angle  b,  and  finally  stopped  short  alto- 
i gether  at  the  other  side  by  the  most  uncourteous  and  re- 
morseless interference  of  the  outer  moulding  : and  in  spite  ol 
all  this,  the  grace,  proportion,  and  feeling  of  the  whole  ar- 
rangement are  so  great,  that,  in  its  place,  it  leaves  nothing  to 
be  desired  ; all  the  science  and  symmetry  in  the  world  could 
not  beat  it.  In  fig.  4 I have  endeavored  to  give  some  idea  of 
the  execution  of  the  subordinate  portions  of  a much  higher 
work,  the  pulpit  of  St.  Andrea  at  Pistoja,  by  Nicolo  Pisano. 

I It  is  covered  with  figure  sculptures,  executed  with  great  care 
j and  delicacy ; but  when  the  sculptor  came  to  the  simple  arch 
i mouldings,  he  did  not  choose  to  draw  the  eye  to  them  by  over 
| precision  of  work  or  over  sharpness  of  shadow.  The  section 
adopted,  k,  m,  is  peculiarly  simple,  and  so  slight  and  obtuse 
; in  its  recessions  as  never  to  produce  a sharp  line ; and  it  is 
worked  with  what  at  first  appears  slovenliness,  but  it  is  in  fact 
| sculptural  sketching ; exactly  correspondent  to  a painter’s 
light  execution  of  a background  : the  lines  appear  and  disap- 
j pear  again,  are  sometimes  deep,  sometimes  shallow7,  sometimes 
quite  broken  off ; and  the  recession  of  the  cusp  joins  that  of 
the  external  arch  at  n,  in  the  most  fearless  defiance  of  all 
mathematical  laws  of  curvilinear  contact. 

IX.  There  is  something  very  delightful  in  this  bold  expres* 
sion  of  the  mind  of  the  great  master.  I do  not  say  that  it  is 


150 


THE  LAMP  OF  LIFE. 


the  “perfect  work”  of  patience,  but  I think  that  impatience 
is  a glorious  character  in  an  advancing  school ; and  I love  the 
Romanesque  and  early  Gothic  especiall}”,  because  they  afford 
so  much  room  for  it ; accidental  carelessness  of  measurement 
or  of  execution  being  mingled  undistinguishably  with  the 
purposed  departures  from  symmetrical  regularity,  and  the 
luxuriousness  of  perpetually  variable  fancy,  which  are  emi- 
nently characteristic  of  both  styles.  How  great,  how  fre- 
quent they  are,  and  how  brightly  the  severity  of  architectural 
law  is  relieved  by  their  grace  and  suddenness,  has  not,  1 
think,  been  enough  observed  ; still  less,  the  unequal  meas- 
urements  of  even  important  features  professing  to  be  abso- 
lutely symmetrical.  I am  not  so  familiar  with  modern  prac- 
tice as  to  speak  with  confidence  respecting  its  ordinary 
precision  ; but  I imagine  that  the  following  measures  of  the 
western  front  of  the  cathedral  of  Pisa,  would  be  looked  upon 
by  present  architects  as  very  blundering  approximations. 
That  front  is  divided  into  seven  arched  compartments,  of 
which  the  second,  fourth  or  central,  and  sixth  contain  doors  ; 
the  seven  are  in  a most  subtle  alternating  proportion  ; the 
central  being  the  largest,  next  to  it  the  second  and  sixth,  then 
the  first  and  seventh,  lastly  the  third  and  fifth.  By  this  ar- 
rangement, of  course,  these  three  pairs  should  be  equal ; and 
they  are  so  to  the  eye,  but  I found  their  actual  measures  to 
be  the  following,  taken  from  pillar  to  pillar,  in  Italian  braccia, 
palmi  (four  inches  each),  and  inches  : — 


Braccia.  Palmi.  Inches. 


1.  Central  door 8 0 0 

2.  Northern  door  } 6 8 1£ 

8.  Southern  door  ( 6 4 3 

4.  Extreme  northern  space  \ 5 5 34 

5.  Extreme  southern  space  \ 6 1 04 


G.  Northern  intervals  between  the  doors  ) 5 2 1 

7.  Southern  intervals  between  the  doors  (5  2 14 


Total  in 
Inches. 

= 192 

= 1574 
= 168 
= 1434 
= 1484 
= 129 
= 1294 


There  is  thus  a difference,  severally,  between  2,  3 and  4,  5, 
of  five  inches  and  a half  in  the  one  case,  and  five  inches  in  tho 
other. 

X.  This,  however,  may  perhaps  be  partly  attributable  to 


THE  LAMP  OF  LIFE. 


151 


some  accommodation  of  the  accidental  distortions  which  evi- 
dently took  place  in  the  walls  of  the  cathedral  during  their 
building,  as  much  as  in  those  of  the  campanile.  To  my  mind, 
those  of  the  Duomo  are  far  the  most  wonderful  of  the  two  : I 
do  not  believe  that  a single  pillar  of  its  walls  is  absolutely 
vertical : the  pavement  rises  and  falls  to  different  heights,  or 
rather  the  plinth  of  the  walls  sinks  into  it  continually  to  dif- 
ferent depths,  the  whole  west  front  literally  overhangs  (I  have 
not  plumbed  it ; but  the  inclination  may  be  seen  by  the  eye, 
by  bringing  it  into  visual  contact  with  the  upright  pilasters  of 
the  Campo  Santo) : and  a most  extraordinary  distortion  in 
the  masonry  of  the  southern  wall  shows  that  this  inclination 
had  begun  when  the  first  story  was  built.  The  cornice  above 
the  first  arcade  of  that  wall  touches  the  tops  of  eleven  out  of 
its  fifteen  arches  ; but  it  suddenly  leaves  the  tops  of  the  four 
westernmost ; the  arches  nodding  westward  and  sinking  into 
the  ground,  while  the  cornice  rises  (or  seems  to  rise),  leaving 
at  any  rate,  whether  by  the  rise  of  the  one  or  the  fall  of  the 
other,  an  interval  of  more  than  two  feet  between  it  and  the 
top  of  the  western  arch,  filled  by  added  courses  of  masonry. 
There  is  another  very  curious  evidence  of  this  struggle  of  the 
architect  with  his  yielding  wall  in  the  columns  of  the  main 
entrance.  (These  notices  are  perhaps  somewhat  irrelevant  to 
our  immediate  subject,  but  they  appear  to  me  highly  interest- 
ing ; and  they,  at  all  events,  prove  one  of  the  points  on  which 
I would  insist, — how  much  of  imperfection  and  variety  in 
things  professing  to  be  symmetrical  the  eyes  of  those  eager 
builders  could  endure  : they  looked  to  loveliness  in  detail,  to 
nobility  in  the  whole,  never  to  petty  measurements.)  Those 
columns  of  the  principal  entrance  are  among  the  loveliest  in 
Italy ; cylindrical,  and  decorated  with  a rich  arabesque  of 
sculptured  foliage,  which  at  the  base  extends  nearly  all  round 
them,  up  to  the  black  pilaster  in  which  they  are  lightly  en- 
gaged . but  the  shield  of  foliage,  bounded  by  a severe  line, 
narrows  to  their  tops,  where  it  covers  their  frontal  segment 
onfy  ; thus  giving,  when  laterally  seen,  a terminal  line  sloping 
boldly  outwards,  which,  as  I think,  was  meant  to  conceal  the 
accidental  leaning  of  the  western  walls,  and,  by  its  exagger- 


152 


THE  LAMP  OF  LIFE. 


ated  inclination  in  the  same  direction,  to  throw  them  by  co*.  • 
parison  into  a seeming  vertical. 

XI.  There  is  another  very  curious  instance  of  distortion 
above  the  central  door  of  the  west  front.  All  the  intervals  be- 
tween the  seven  arches  are  filled  with  black  marble,  each  con- 
taining in  its  centre  a white  parallelogram  filled  with  animal 
mosaics,  and  the  whole  surmounted  by  a broad  white  band,  : 
which,  generally,  does  not  touch  the  parallelogram  below,  jl 
But  the  parallelogram  on  the  north  of  the  central  arch  has 
been  forced  into  an  oblique  position,  and  touches  the  white 
band  ; and,  as  if  the  architect  was  determined  to  show  that 
he  did  not  care  whether  it  did  or  not,  the  white  band  suddenly  ; 
gets  thicker  at  that  place,  and  remains  so  over  the  two  next 
arches.  And  these  differences  are  the  more  curious  because  1 
the  workmanship  of  them  all  is  most  finished  and  masterly,  1 
and  the  distorted  stones  are  fitted  with  as  much  neatness  as 
if  they  tallied  to  a hair’s  breadth.  There  is  no  look  of  slur-  ] 
ring  or  blundering  about  it  ; it  is  all  coolly  filled  in,  as  if  the 
builder  had  no  sense  of  anything  being  wrong  or  extraordi- 
nary : I only  wish  we  had  a little  of  his  impudence. 

XII.  Still,  the  reader  will  say  that  all  these  variations  are 
probably  dependent  more  on  the  bad  foundation  than  on  the 
architect’s  feeling.  Not  so  the  exquisite  delicacies  of  change 
in  the  proportions  and  dimensions  of  the  apparently  symmetri- 
cal arcades  of  the  west  front.  It  will  be  remembered  that 

I said  the  tower  of  Pisa  was  the  only  ugly  tower  in  Italy,  I 
because  its  tiers  were  equal,  or  nearly  so,  in  height ; a fault 
this,  so  contrary  to  the  spirit  of  the  builders  of  the  time,  that 
it  can  be  considered  only  as  an  unlucky  caprice.  Perhaps  the 
general  aspect  of  the  west  front  of  the  cathedral  may  then 
have  occurred  to  the  reader’s  mind,  as  seemingly  another  con- 
tradiction of  the  rule  I had  advanced.  It  would  not  have  been 
so,  however,  even  had  its  four  upper  arcades  been  actually  i 
equal ; as  they  are  subordinated  to  the  great  seven-arched  |j 
lower  story,  in  the  manner  before  noticed  respecting  the  spire  ji 
of  Salisbury,  and  as  is  actually  the  case  in  the  Duomo  of  Lucca  \ 
and  Tower  of  Pistoja.  But  the  Pisan  front  is  far  more  subtly  i 
proportioned.  Not  one  of  its  four  arcades  is  of  like  height 


THE  LAMP  OF  LIFE. 


153 


with  another.  The  highest  is  the  third,  counting  upwards ; 
and  they  diminish  in  nearly  arithmetical  proportion  alter- 
nately ; in  the  order  3rd,  1st,  2nd,  4th.  The  inequalities  in 
their  arches  are  not  less  remarkable  : they  at  first  strike  the 
eye  as  all  equal ; but  there  is  a grace  about  them  which 
equality  never  obtained  : on  closer  observation,  it  is  perceived 
that  in  the  first  row  of  nineteen  arches,  eighteen  are  equal, 
and  the  central  one  larger  than  the  rest ; in  the  second  arcade, 
the  nine  central  arches  stand  over  the  nine  below,  having,  like 
them,  the  ninth  central  one  largest.  But  on  their  flanks,  where 
is  the  slope  of  the  shoulder-like  pediment,  the  arches  vanish, 
and  a wedge-shaped  frieze  takes  their  place,  tapering  outwards, 
in  order  to  allow  the  columns  to  be  carried  to  the  extremity  of 
the  pediment ; and  here,  where  the  heights  of  the  shafts  are 
so  far  shortened,  they  are  set  thicker  ; five  shafts,  or  rather 
four  and  a capital,  above,  to  four  of  the  arcade  below,  giving' 
twenty-one  intervals  instead  of  nineteen.  In  the  next  or  third 
arcade, — which,  remember,  is  the  highest, — eight  arches,  all 
equal,  are  given  in  the  space  of  the  nine  below,  so  that  there 
is  now  a central  shaft  instead  of  a central  arch,  and  the  span 
of  the  arches  is  increased  in  porportion  to  their  increased 
height.  Finally,  in  the  uppermost  arcade,  which  is  the  lowest 
of  all,  the  arches,  the  same  in  number  as  those  below,  are 
narrower  than  any  of  the  fayade  ; the  whole  eight  going  very 
nearly  above  the  six  below  them,  while  the  terminal  arches  of 
the  lower  arcade  are  surmounted  by  flanking  masses  of  deco- 
rated wall  with  projecting  figures. 

XIII.  Now  I call  that  Living  Architecture.  There  is  sensa- 
tion in  every  inch  of  it,  and  an  accommodation  to  every 
architectural  necessity,  with  a determined  variation  in  ar- 
rangement, which  is  exactly  like  the  related  proportions  and 
provisions  in  the  structure  of  organic  form.  I have  not  space 
to  examine  the  still  lovelier  proportioning  of  the  external  shafts 
of  the  apse  of  this  marvellous  building.  I prefer,  lest  the 
| reader  should  think  it  a peculiar  example,  to  state  the  struct* 
ure  of  another  church,  the  most  graceful  and  grand  piece  of 
Romanesque  work,  as  a fragment,  in  north  Italy,  that  of  San 
Giovanni  Evangelista  at  Pistoja. 


154 


THE  LAMP  OF  LIFE. 


The  side  of  that  church  has  three  stories  of  arcade,  dimim 
ishing  in  height  in  bold  geometrical  proportion,  while  the 
arches,  for  the  most  part,  increase  in  number  in  arithmetical, 
i.  e.  two  in  the  second  arcade,  and  three  in  the  third,  to  one 
in  the  first.  Lest,  however,  this  arrangement  should  be  too 
formal,  of  the  fourteen  arches  in  the  lowest  series,  that 
which  contains  the  door  is  made  larger  than  the  rest,  and  is 
not  in  the  middle,  but  the  sixth  from  the  West,  leaving  five  on 
one  side  and  eight  on  the  other.  Farther  : this  lowest  arcade 
is  terminated  by  broad  flat  pilasters,  about  half  the  width  of 
its  arches  ; but  the  arcade  above  is  continuous  ; only  the  two 
extreme  arches  at  the  west  end  are  made  larger  than  all  the 
rest,  and  instead  of  coming,  as  they  should,  into  the  space  of 
the  lower  extreme  arch,  take  in  both  it  and  its  broad  pilaster. 
Even  this,  however,  was  not  out  of  order  enough  to  satisfy  the 
architect’s  eye  ; for  there  were  still  two  arches  above  to  each 
single  one  below  : so  at  the  east  end,  where  there  are  more 
arches,  and  the  eye  might  be  more  easily  cheated,  what  does 
he  do  but  narrow  the  two  extreme  lower  arches  by  half  a 
braccio  ; while  he  at  the  same  time  slightly  enlarged  the 
upper  ones,  so  as  to  get  only  seventeen  upper  to  nine  lower, 
instead  of  eighteen  to  nine.  The  eye  is  thus  thoroughly  con- 
fused, and  the  whole  building  thrown  into  one  mass,  by  the 
curious  variations  in  the  adjustments  of  the  superimposed 
shafts,  not  one  of  which  is  either  exactly  in  nor  positively  out 
of  its  place  ; and,  to  get  this  managed  the  more  cunningly, 
there  is  from  an  inch  to  an  inch  and  a half  of  gradual  gain  in 
the  space  of  the  four  eastern  arches,  besides  the  confessed 
half  braccio.  Their  measures,  counting  from  the  east,  I found 
as  follows  : — 

Braccia.  Palmi.  Inches. 


1st 3 0 1 

2nd 3 0 2 

3rd 3 3 2 

4tli 3 3 3£ 


The  upper  arcade  is  managed  on  the  same  principle  ; it 
looks  at  first  as  if  there  were  three  arches  to  each  undei  pair  ; 
but  there  are,  in  reality,  only  thirty-eight  (or  thirty-seven,  1 


THE  LAMP  OF  LIFE. 


155 


am  not  quite  certain  of  this  number)  to  the  twenty- seven  be- 
low  ; and  the  columns  get  into  all  manner  of  relative  posi- 
tions. Even  then,  the  builder  was  not  satisfied,  but  must 
needs  carry  the  irregularity  into  the  spring  of  the  arches, 
and  actually,  while  the  general  effect  is  of  a symmetrical 
arcade,  there  is  not  one  of  the  arches  the  same  in  height  as 
another  ; their  tops  undulate  all  along  the  wall  like  waves 
along  a harbor  quay,  some  nearly  touching  the  string  course 
above,  and  others  falling  from  it  as  much  as  five  or  six 
inches. 

XIV.  Let  us  next  examine  the  plan  of  the  west  front  of  Si 
Mark’s  at  Venice,  which,  though  in  many  respects  imperfect, 
is  in  its  proportions,  and  as  a piece  of  rich  and  fantastic  color, 
as  lovely  a dream  as  ever  filled  human  imagination.  It  may, 
perhaps,  however,  interest  the  reader  to  hear  one  opposite 
opinion  upon  this  subject,  and  after  what  has  been  urged  in  the 
preceding  pages  respecting  proportion  in  general,  more  espe- 
cially respecting  the  wrongness  of  balanced  cathedral  towers 
and  other  regular  designs,  together  with  my  frequent  references 
to  the  Doge’s  palace,  and  campanile  of  St.  Mark’s,  as  models 
of  perfection,  and  my  praise  of  the  former  especially  as  pro- 
jecting above  its  second  arcade,  the  following  extracts  from 
the  journal  of  Wood  the  architect,  written  on  liis  arrival 
at  Venice,  may  have  a pleasing  freshness  in  them,  and  may 
show  that  I have  not  been  stating  principles  altogether  trite 
or  accepted. 

“ The  strange  looking  church,  and  the  great  ugly  campanile, 
could  not  be  mistaken.  The  exterior  of  this  church  surprises 
you  by  its  extreme  ugliness,  more  than  by  anything  else.” 

- “ The  Ducal  Palace  is  even  more  ugly  than  anything  I havo 
previously  mentioned.  Considered  in  detail,  I can  imagine  no 
alteration  to  make  it  tolei  able  ; but  if  this  lofty  wall  had  been 
set  back  behind  the  two  stories  of  little  arches,  it  would  havo 
been  a very  noble  production.” 

After  more  observations  on  “ a certain  justness  of  propor- 
tion,” and  on  the  appearance  of  riches  and  power  in  the  church, 
to  which  he  ascribes  a pleasing  effect,  he  goes  on  : “ Some  per- 
sons are  of  opinion  that  irregularity  is  a necessary  part  of  its 


156 


THE  LAMP  OF  LIFE. 


excellence.  I am  decidedly  of  a contrary  opinion,  and  am  com 
vinced  that  a regular  design  of  the  same  sort  would  be  far  su- 
perior. Let  an  oblong  of  good  architecture,  but  not  very 
showy,  conduct  to  a fine  cathedral,  which  should  appear  be- 
tween two  lofty  towers  and  have  two  obelisks  in  front,  and  on 
each  side  of  this  cathedral  let  other  squares  partially  open  into 
the  first,  and  one  of  these  extend  down  to  a harbor  or  sea 
shore,  and  you  would  have  a scene  which  might  challenge  any 
thing  in  existence.” 

Why  Mr.  Wood  was  unable  to  enjoy  the  color  of  St.  Mark’s, 
or  perceive  the  majesty  of  the  Ducal  Palace,  the  reader  will  see 
after  reading  the  two  following  extracts  regarding  the  Caracci 
and  Michael  Angelo. 

“ The  pictures  here  (Bologna)  are  to  my  taste  far  preferable 
to  those  of  Venice,  for  if  the  Venetian  school  surpass  in  color- 
ing, and,  perhaps,  in  composition,  the  Bolognese  is  decidedly 
superior  in  drawing  and  expression,  and  the  Caraccis  shine  here 
like  Gods” 

“What  is  it  that  is  so  much  admired  in  this  artist  (M.  An- 
gelo) ? Some  contend  for  a grandeur  of  composition  in  the 
lines  and  disposition  of  the  figures ; this,  I confess,  I do  not 
comprehend ; yet,  while  I acknowdedge  the  beauty  of  certain 
forms  and  proportions  in  architecture,  I cannot  consistently 
deny  that  similar  merits  may  exist  in  painting,  though  I am 
unfortunately  unable  to  appreciate  them.” 

I think  these  passages  very  valuable,  as  showing  the  effect 
of  a contracted  knowledge  and  false  taste  in  painting  upon  an 
architect’s  understanding  of  his  own  art ; and  especially  with 
what  curious  notions,  or  lack  of  notions,  about  proportion,  that 
art  has  been  sometimes  practised.  For  Air.  Wood  is  by  no 
means  unintelligent  in  his  observations  generally,  and  his  criti- 
cisms on  classical  art  are  often  most  valuable.  But  those  wrho 
love  Titian  better  than  the  Caracci,  and  who  see  something  to 
admire  in  Michael  Angelo,  will,  perhaps,  be  willing  to  proceed 
with  me  to  a charitable  examination  of  St.  Mark’s.  For,  al- 
though the  present  course  of  European  events  affords  us  some 
chance  of  seeing  the  changes  proposed  by7  Mr.  Wood  carried 
into  execution,  we  may  still  esteem  ourselves  fortunate  in  haw 


THE  LAMP  OF  LIFE.  15? 

ing  first  known  how  it  was  left  by  the  builders  of  the  eleventh 
century. 

XV.  The  entire  front  is  composed  of  an  upper  and  lower 
series  of  arches,  enclosing  spaces  of  wall  decorated  with  mosaic, 
and  supported  on  ranges  of  shafts  of  which,  in  the  lower  series 
of  arches,  there  is  an  upper  range  superimposed  on  a lower. 
Thus  wTe  have  five  vertical  divisions  of  the  fa§ade  ; i.e.  two  tiers 
of  shafts,  and  the  arched  wall  they  bear,  below  ; one  tier  of 
shafts,  and  the  arched  wall  they  bear,  above.  In  order,  how- 
ever, to  bind  the  two  main  divisions  together,  the  central 
lower  arch  (the  main  entrance)  rises  above  the  level  of  the 
gallery  and  balustrade  which  crown  the  lateral  arches. 

The  proportioning  of  the  columns  and  walls  of  the  lower 
story  is  so  lovely  and  so  varied,  that  it  would  need  pages  of 
description  before  it  could  be  fully  understood  ; but  it  may  be 
generally  stated  thus  : The  height  of  the  lower  shafts,  upper 
shafts,  and  -wall,  being  severally  expressed  by  a,  b,  and  c,  then 
a:  c ::  c : b (a  being  the  highest)  ; and  the  diameter  of  shaft 
b is  generally  to  the  diameter  of  shaft  a as  height  b is  to  height 
a,  or  something  less,  allowing  for  the  large  plinth  which  dimin- 
ishes the  apparent  height  of  the  upper  shaft : and  when  this  is 
their  proportion  of  width,  one  shaft  above  is  put  above  one 
below,  with  sometimes  another  upper  shaft  interposed  : but  in 
the  extreme  arches  a single  under  shaft  bears  two  upper,  pro- 
portioned as  truly  as  the  boughs  of  a tree  ; that  is  to  say, 
the  diameter  of  each  upper  = §-  of  low~er.  There  being  thus 
the  three  terms  of  proportion  gained  in  the  lower  story,  the 
upper,  while  it  is  only  divided  into  two  main  members,  in 
order  that  the  whole  height  may  not  be  divided  into  an  even 
number,  has  the  third  term  added  in  its  pinnacles.  So  far  of 
the  vertical  division.  The  lateral  is  still  more  subtle.  There 
are  seven  arches  in  the  lower  story ; and,  calling  the  central 
arch  a , and  counting  to  the  extremity,  they  diminish  in  the 
alternate  order  a,  c,  b,  d.  The  upper  story  has  five  arches,  and 
two  added  pinnacles ; and  these  diminish  in  regular  order,  the 
central  being  the  largest,  and  the  outermost  the  least.  Hence, 
while  one  proportion  ascends,  another  descends,  like  parts  in 
music  ; and  yet  the  pyramidal  form  is  secured  for  the  whole, 


158 


THE  LAMP  OF  LIFE. 


and,  which  was  another  great  point  of  attention,  none  of  the 
shafts  of  the  upper  arches  stand  over  those  of  the  lower. 

XYI.  It  might  have  been  thought  that,  by  this  plan,  enough 
variety  had  been  secured,  but  the  builder  was  not  satisfied  even 
thus  : for — and  this  is  the  point  bearing  on  the  present  part  of 
our  subject — always  calling  the  central  arch  a,  and  the  lateral 
ones  b and  c in  succession,  the  northern  b and  c are  consider- 
ably wider  than  the  southern  b and  c,  but  the  southern  d is  as 
much  wider  than  the  northern  d,  and  lower  beneath  its  cornice 
besides  ; and,  more  than  this,  I hardly  believe  that  one  of  the 
effectively  symmetrical  members  of  the  fayade  is  actually  sym- 
metrical with  any  other.  I regret  that  I cannot  state  the  actual 
measures.  I gave  up  the  taking  them  upon  the  spot,  owing  to 
their  excessive  complexity,  and  the  embarrassment  caused  by 
the  yielding  and  subsidence  of  the  arches. 

Do  not  let  it  be  supposed  that  I imagine  the  Byzantine 
workmen  to  have  had  these  various  principles  in  their  minds  as 
they  built.  I believe  they  built  altogether  from  feeling,  and 
that  it  was  because  they  did  so,  that  there  is  this  marvellous 
life,  changefulness,  and  subtlety  running  through  their  every 
arrangement ; and  that  we  reason  upon  the  lovely  building  as 
we  should  upon  some  fair  growth  of  the  trees  of  the  earth, 
that  know  not  their  own  beauty. 

XVII.  Perhaps,  however,  a stranger  instance  than  any  I have 
yet  given,  of  the  daring  variation  of  pretended  symmetry,  is 
found  in  the  front  of  the  Cathedral  of  Bayeux.  It  consists  of 
five  arches  with  steep  pediments,  the  outermost  filled,  the  three 
central  with  doors ; and  they  appear,  at  first,  to  diminish  in 
regular  proportion  from  the  principal  one  in  the  centre.  The 
tw o lateral  doors  are  very  curiously  managed.  The  tympana 
of  their  arches  are  filled  with  bas-reliefs,  in  four  tiers  ; in  the 
lowest  tier  there  is  in  each  a little  temple  or  gate  containing 
the  principal  figure  (in  that  on  the  right,  it  is  the  gate  of  Hades 
with  Lucifer).  This  little  temple  is  carried,  like  a capital,  by 
an  isolated  shaft  which  divides  the  whole  arch  at  about  § of  its 
breadth,  the  larger  portion  outmost ; and  in  that  larger  por- 
tion is  the  inner  entrance  door.  This  exact  correspondence,  in 
the  treatment  of  both  gates,  might  lead  us  to  expect  a corre- 


THE  LAMP  OF  LIFE. 


159 


spondence  in  dimension.  Not  at  all.  The  small  inner  northern 
entrance  measures,  in  English  feet  and  inches,  4 ft.  7 in.  from 
jamb  to  jamb,  and  the  southern  five  feet  exactly.  Five  inches 
in  five  feet  is  a considerable  variation.  The  outer  northern 
porch  measures,  from  face  shaft  to  face  shaft,  13  ft.  11  in.,  and 
the  southern,  14  ft.  6 in. ; giving  a difference  of  7 in.  on  141  ft 
There  are  also  variations  in  the  pediment  decorations  not  less 
extraordinary. 

XVIII.  I imagine  I have  given  instances  enough,  though  I 
could  multiply  them  indefinitely,  to  prove  that  these  variations 
are  not  mere  blunders,  nor  carelessnesses,  but  the  result  of  a 
fixed  scorn,  if  not  dislike,  of  accuracy  in  measurements ; and,  in 
most  cases,  I believe,  of  a determined  resolution  to  work  out 
an  effective  symmetry  by  variations  as  subtle  as  those  of  Na- 
ture. To  what  lengths  this  principle  was  sometimes  carried, 
we  shall  see  by  the  very  singular  management  of  the  towers  of 
Abbeville.  I do  not  say  it  is  right,  still  less  that  it  is  wrong, 
but  it  is  a wonderful  proof  of  the  fearlessness  of  a living  archi- 
tecture ; for,  say  what  we  will  of  it,  that  Flamboyant  of  France, 
however  morbid,  was  as  vivid  and  intense  in  its  animation  as 
ever  any  phase  of  mortal  mind  ; and  it  would  have  lived  till 
now,  if  it  had  not  taken  to  telling  lies.  I have  before  noticed 
the  general  difficulty  of  managing  even  lateral  division,  when 
it  is  into  two  equal  parts,  unless  there  be  some  third  reconcil- 
ing member.  I shall  give,  hereafter,  more  examples  of  the 
modes  in  which  this  reconciliation  is  effected  in  towers  with 
double  lights : the  Abbeville  architect  put  his  sword  to  the 
knot  perhaps  rather  too  sharply.  Vexed  by  the  want  of  unity 
i between  his  two  windows  he  literally  laid  their  heads  together, 
and  so  distorted  their  ogee  curves,  as  to  leave  only  one  of  the 
trefoiled  panels  above,  on  the  inner  side,  and  three  on  the 
| outer  side  of  each  arch.  The  arrangement  is  given  in  Plate 
; XII.  fig.  3.  Associated  with  the  various  undulation  of  flam- 
| boyant  curves  below7,  it  is  in  the  real  tower  hardly  observed, 
while  it  binds  it  into  one  mass  in  general  effect.  Granting  it, 
however,  to  be  ugly  and  wrong,  I like  sins  of  the  kind,  for  the 
sake  of  the  courage  it  requires  to  commit  them.  In  plate  II. 
j (part  of  a small  chapel  attached  to  the  West  front  of  the 


160 


THE  LAMP  OF  LIFE. 


Cathedral  of  St.  Lo),  the  reader  will  see  an  instance,  from  the 
same  architecture,  of  a violation  of  its  own  principles,  for  the 
sake  of  a peculiar  meaning.  If  there  be  any  one  feature  which 
the  flamboyant  architect  loved  to  decorate  richly,  it  was  the 
niche — it  was  what  the  capital  is  to  the  Corinthian  order  ; yet 
in  the  case  before  us  there  is  an  ugly  beehive  put  in  the  place 
of  the  principal  niche  of  the  arch.  I am  not  sure  if  I am  right 
in  my  interpretation  of  its  meaning,  but  I have  little  doubt 
that  two  figures  below,  now  broken  away,  once  represented 
an  Annunciation  ; and  on  another  part  of  the  same  cathedral, 
I find  the  descent  of  the  Spirit,  encompassed  by  rays  of  light, 
represented  very  nearly  in  the  form  of  the  niche  in  question  ; 
which  appears,  therefore,  to  be  intended  for  a representation 
of  this  effulgence,  while  at  the  same  time  it  was  made  a canopy 
for  the  delicate  figures  below.  Whether  this  was  its  meaning 
or  not,  it  is  remarkable  as  a daring  departure  from  the  com- 
mon habits  of  the  time. 

XIX.  Far  more  splendid  is  a license  taken  with  the  niche 
decoration  of  the  portal  of  St.  Maclou  at  Eouen.  The  sub- 
ject of  the  tympanum  bas-relief  is  the  Last  Judgment,  and 
the  sculpture  of  the  inferno  side  is  carried  out  with  a degree 
of  power  whose  fearful  grotesqueness  I can  only  describe  as 
a mingling  of  the  minds  of  Orcagna  and  Hogarth.  The  de- 
mons are  perhaps  even  more  awful  than  Orcagna’s ; and,  in 
some  of  the  expressions  of  debased  humanity  in  its  utmost 
despair,  the  English  painter  is  at  least  equalled.  Not  less 
wild  is  the  imagination  which  gives  fury  and  fear  even  to  the 
placing  of  the  figures.  An  evil  angel,  poised  on  the  wing, 
drives  the  condemned  troops  from  before  the  Judgment  seat ; 
with  his  left  hand  he  drags  behind  him  a cloud,  which  is 
spreading  like  a winding-sheet  over  them  all ; but  they  are 
urged  by  him  so  furiously,  that  they  are  driven  not  merely  to 
the  extreme  limit  of  that  scene,  which  the  sculptor  confined 
elsewhere  within  the  tympanum,  but  out  of  the  tympanum 
and  into  the  niches  of  the  arch  ; while  the  flames  that  follow 
them,  bent  by  the  blast,  as  it  seems,  of  the  angel’s  wings,  rush 
into  the  niches  also,  and  burst  up  through  their  tracery,  the 
three  lowermost  niches  being  represented  as  all  on  fire,  while, 


PLATE  XIII.— (Page  161— Yol.  V.) 

Portions  of  an  Arcade  on  the  South  Side  of  the  Cathedral  of  Ferrara. 


161 


THE  LAMP  OF  LIFE.  ’ 

Instead  of  tlieir  usual  vaulted  and  ribbed  ceiling,  there  is  a 
demon  in  the  roof  of  each,  with  bis  .wings  folded  over  it,  grin- 
ning down  out  of  the  black  shadow. 

XX.  I have,  however,  given  enough  instances  of  vitality 
shown  in  mere  daring,  whether  vase,  as  surely  in  this  last  in- 
stance, or  inexpedient ; but,  as  a single  example  of  the  Vital- 
ity of  Assimilation,  the  faculty  which  turns  to  its  purposes  all 
material  that  is  submitted  to  it,  I would  refer  the  reader  to 
the  extraordinary  columns  of  the  arcade  on  the  south  side  of 
I the  Cathedral  of  Ferrara.  A single  arch  of  it  is  given  in  Plate 
XIII,  on  the  right.  Four  such  columns  forming  a group,  there 
are  interposed  two  pairs  of  columns,  as  seen  on  the  left  of  the 
same  plate  ; and  then  come  another  four  arches.  It  is  a long 
arcade  of,  I suppose,  not  less  than  forty  arches,  perhaps  of 
many  more  ; and  in  the  grace  and  simplicity  of  its  stilted  By- 
zantine curves  I hardly  know  its  equal.  Its  like,  in  fancy  of 
column,  I certainly  do  not  know ; there  being  hardly  two  cor- 
I respondent,  and  the  architect  having  been  ready,  as  it  seems, 
to  adopt  ideas  and  resemblances*  from  any  sources  whatsoever. 
The  vegetation  growing  up  the  two  columns  is  fine,  though 
bizarre  ; the  distorted  pillars  beside  it  suggest  images  of  less 
agreeable  character  ; the  serpentine  arrangements  founded  on 
the  usual  Byzantine  double  knot  are  generally  graceful ; but 
I was  puzzled  to  account  for  the  excessively  ugly  type  of  the 
pillar,  fig.  3,  one  of  a group  of  four.  It  so  happened,  fortu- 
nately for  me,  that  there  had  been  a fair  in  Ferrara ; and, 
when  I had  finished  my  sketch  of  the  pillar,  I had  to  get  out 
of  the  way  of  some  merchants  of  miscellaneous  wares,  who 
were  removing  their  stall.  It  had  been  shaded  by  an  awning 
supported  by  poles,  which,  in  order  that  the  covering  might 
be  raised  or  lowered  according  to  the  height  of  the  sun,  were 
composed  of  two  separate  pieces,  fitted  to  each  other  by  a 
rack , in  which  I beheld  the  prototype  of  my  ugly  pillar.  It 
will  not  be  thought,  after  what  I have  above  said  of  the  inex- 
! pedience  of  imitating  anything  but  natural  form,  that  I ad- 
vance this  architect’s  practice  as  altogether  exemplary  ; yet  the 
humility  is  instructive,  which  condescended  to  such  sources 
for  motives  of  thought,  the  boldness,  which  could  depart  so 
U 


162- 


THE  LAME  OF  LIFE. 


far  from  all  established  types  of  form,  and  the  life  and  feel* 
ing,  which  out  of  an  assemblage  of  such  quaint  and  uncouth 
materials,  could  produce  an  harmonious  piece  of  ecclesiastical 
architecture. 

XXL  I have  dwelt,  however,  perhaps,  too  long  upon  that 
form  of  vitality  which  is  known  almost  as  much  by  its  errors 
as  by  its  atonements  for  them.  We  must  briefly  note  the 
operation  of  it,  which  is  always  right,  and  always  necessary, 
upon  those  lesser  details,  where  it  can  neither  be  superseded 
by  precedents,  nor  repressed  by  proprieties. 

I said,  early  in  this  essay,  that  hand-work  might  always  bo 
known  from  machine-work  ; observing,  however,  at  the  same 
time,  that  it  was  possible  for  men  to  turn  themselves  into  ma- 
chines, and  to  reduce  their  labor  to  the  machine  level ; but  so 
long  as  men  work  as  men,  putting  their  heart  into  what  they 
do,  and  doing  their  best,  it  matters  not  how  bad  workmen  they 
may  be,  there  will  be  that  in  the  handling  which  is  above  all 
price  : it  will  be  plainly  seen  that  some  places  have  been  de- 
lighted in  more  than  others— that  there  has  been  a pause,  and 
a care  about  them  ; and  then  there  will  come  careless  bits,  and 
fast  bits  ; and  here  the  chisel  will  have  struck  hard,  and  there 
lightly,  and  anon  timidly  ; and  if  the  man’s  mind  as  well  as 
his  heart  went  with  his  work,  all  this  vail  be  in  the  right 
places,  and  each  part  will  set  off  the  other  ; and  the  effect  of 
the  whole,  as  compared  with  the  same  design  cut  by  a machine 
or  a lifeless  hand,  will  be  like  that  of  poetry  well  read  and 
deeply  felt  to  that  of  the  same  verses  jangled  by  rote.  There 
are  many  to  whom  the  difference  is  imperceptible  ; but  to 
those  who  love  poetry  it  is  everything — they  had  rather  not 
hear  it  at  all,  than  hear  it  ill  read  ; and  to  those  who  love  Ar- 
chitecture, the  life  and  accent  of  the  hand  are  everything. 
They  had  rather  not  have  ornament  at  all,  than  see  it  ill  cut- 
deadly  cut,  that  is.  I cannot  too  often  repeat,  it  is  not  coarse 
cutting,  it  is  not  blunt  cutting,  that  is  necessarily  bad  ; but  it 
is  cold  cutting — the  look  of  equal  trouble  everywhere — the 
smooth,  diffused  tranquillity  of  heartless  pains — the  regularity 
of  a plough  in  a level  field.  The  chill  is  more  likely,  indeed, 
to  show  itself  in  finished  work  than  in  any  other— men  cool 


THE  LAMP  OF  LIFE. 


163 


and  tire  as  they  complete  : and  if  completeness  is  thought  to 
be  vested  in  polish,  and  to  be  attainable  by  help  of  sand  paper, 
we  may  as  well  give  the  work  to  the  engine-lathe  at  once.  But 
right  finish  is  simply  the  full  rendering  of  the  intended  im- 
pression ; and  high  finish  is  the  rendering  of  a well  intended 
and  vivid  impression  ; and  it  is  often er  got  by  rough  than  fine 
handling.  I am  not  sure  whether  it  is  frequently  enough  ob- 
served that  sculpture  is  not  the  mere  cutting  of  the  form  of 
anything  in  stone  ; it  is  the  cutting  of  the  effect  of  it.  Very 
often  the  true  form,  in  the  marble,  would  not  be  in  the  least 
like  itself.  The  sculptor  must  paint  with  his  chisel : half  his 
touches  are  not  to  realize,  but  to  put  power  into  the  form  : they 
are  touches  of  light  and  shadow  ; and  raise  a ridge,  or  sink  a 
hollow,  not  to  represent  an  actual  ridge  or  hollow,  but  to  get  a 
line  of  light,  or  a spot  of  darkness.  In  a coarse  way,  this  kind 
of  execution  is  very  marked  in  old  French  woodwork;  the 
irises  of  the  eyes  of  its  chimeric  monsters  being  cut  boldly 
into  holes,  which,  variously  placed,  and  always  dark,  give  all 
kinds  of  strange  and  startling  expressions,  averted  and  askance, 
to  the  fantastic  countenances.  Perhaps  the  highest  examples 
of  this  kind  of  sculpture-painting  are  the  works  of  Mino  da 
Fiesole  ; their  best  effects  being  reached  by  strange  angular, 
and  seemingly  rude,  touches  of  the  chisel.  The  lips  of  one  of 
the  children  on  the  tombs  in  the  church  of  the  Badia,  appear 
only  half  finished  when  they  are  seen  close  ; yet  the  expression 
is  farther  carried  and  more  ineffable,  than  in  any  piece  of  mar- 
ble I have  ever  seen,  especially  considering  its  delicacy,  and  the 
softness  of  the  child-features.  In  a sterner  kind,  that  of  the 
statues  in  the  sacristy  of  St.  Lorenzo  equals  it,  and  there  again 
by  incompletion.  I know  no  example  of  work  in  which  the 
forms  are  absolutely  true  and  complete  where  such  a result  is 
attained  ; in  Greek  sculptures  is  not  even  attempted. 

XXH.  It  is  evident  that,  for  architectural  appliances,  such 
masculine  handling,  likely  as  it  must  be  to  retain  its  effective- 
ness when  higher  finish  would  be  injured  by  time,  must  al- 
ways be  the  most  expedient ; and  as  it  is  impossible,  even 
were  it  desirable  that  the  highest  finish  should  be  given  to 
the  quantity  of  work  which  covers  a large  building,  it  will  be 


164 


THE  LAMP  OF  LIFE. 


understood  how  precious  the  intelligence  must  become,  which 
renders  incompletion  itself  a means  of  additional  expression ; 
and  how  great  must  be  the  difference,  when  the  touches  are 
rude  and  few,  between  those  of  a careless  and  those  of  a re- 
gardful  mind.  It  is  not  easy  to  retain  anything  of  their  char- 
acter in  a copy  ; yet  the  reader  will  find  one  or  two  illustra- 
tive points  in  the  examples,  given  in  Plate  XI Y.,  from  the 
bas-reliefs  of  the  north  of  Bouen  Cathedral  There  are  three 
square  pedestals  under  the  three  main  niches  on  each  side  of 
it,  and  one  in  the  centre  ; each  of  these  being  on  two  sides 
decorated  with  five  quatrefoiled  panels.  There  are  thus  sev- 
enty quatrefoils  in  the  lower  ornament  of  the  gate  alone,  with- 
out counting  those  of  the  outer  course  round  it,  and  of  the 
pedestals  outside  : each  quatrefoil  is  filled  with  a bas-relief, 
the  whole  reaching  to  something  above  a man’s  height.  A 
modem  architect  would,  of  course,  have  made  all  the  five 
quatrefoils  of  each  pedestal-side  equal  : not  so  the  Mediaeval. 
The  general  form  being  apparently  a quatrefoil  composed  of 
semicircles  on  the  sides  of  a square,  it  will  be  found  on  ex- 
amination that  none  of  the  arcs  are  semicircles,  and  none  of 
the  basic  figures  squares.  The  latter  are  rhomboids,  having 
their  acute  or  obtuse  angles  uppermost  according  to  their 
larger  or  smaller  size  ; and  the  arcs  upon  their  sides  slide 
into  such  places  as  they  can  get  in  the  angles  of  the  enclosing 
parallelogram,  leaving  intervals,  at  each  of  the  four  angles,  of 
various  shapes,  which  are  filled  each  by  an  animal.  The  size 
of  the  whole  panel  being  thus  varied,  the  two  lowest  of  the  five 
are  tall,  the  next  two  short,,  and  the  uppermost  a little  higher 
than  the  lowest ; while  in  the  course  of  bas-reliefs  which  sur= 
rounds  the  gate,  calling  either  of  the  two  lowest  (which  are 
equal),  a , and  either  of  the  next  two  b,  and  the  fifth  and  sixth 
c and  d,  then  d (the  largest) : c ::  c : a ::  a : b.  It  is  wonderful 
how  much  of  the  grace  of  the  whole  depends  on  these  variations. 

XXIII.  Each  of  the  angles,  it  was  said,  is  filled  by  an  ani- 
mal. There  are  thus  70  x 4=280  animals,  all  different,  in  the 
mere  fillings  of  the  intervals  of  the  bas-reliefs.  Three  of  these 
intervals,  with  their  beasts,  actual  size,  the  curves  being  traced 
upon  the  stone,  I have  given  in  Plate  XIV. 


PLATE  XIV.— (Page  165— Vol.  V.) 
Sculptures  from  the  Cathedral  of  Rouen. 


THE  LAMP  OF  LIFE. 


165 


I say  nothing  of  their  general  design,  or  of  the  lines  of 
the  wings  and  scales,  which  are  perhaps,  unless  in  those  of 
the  central  dragon,  not  much  above  the  usual  commonplaces 
of  good  ornamental  work  ; but  there  is  an  evidence  in  the 
features  of  thoughtfulness  and  fancy  which  is  not  common,  at 
least  now-a-days.  The  upper  creature  on  the  left  is  biting 
something,  the  form  of  which  is  hardly  traceable  in  the  de- 
faced stone — but  biting  he  is  ; and  the  reader  cannot  but  re- 
cognise in  the  peculiarly  reverted  eye  the  expression  which  is 
never  seen,  as  I think,  but  in  the  eye  of  a dog  gnawing  some- 
thing in  jest,  and  preparing  to  start  away  with  it : the  mean- 
ing of  the  glance,  so  far  as  it  can  be  marked  by  the  mere  in- 
cision of  the  chisel,  will  be  felt  by  comparing  it  with  the  eye 
of  the  couchant  figure  on  the  right,  in  its  gloomy  and  angry 
brooding.  The  plan  of  this  head,  and  the  nod  of  the  cap 
over  its  brow,  are  fine  ; but  there  is  a little  touch  above  the 
hand  especially  well  meant : the  fellow  is  vexed  and  puzzled 
in  liis  malice  ; and  his  hand  is  pressed  hard  on  liis  cheek 
bone,  and  the  flesh  of  the  cheek  is  wrinkled  under  the  eye  by 
the  pressure.  The  whole,  indeed,  looks  wretchedly  coarse, 
when  it  is  seen  on  a scale  in  which  it  is  naturally  compared 
with  delicate  figure  etchings  ; but  considering  it  as  a mere 
filling  of  an  interstice  on  the  outside  of  a cathedral  gate,  and 
as  one  of  more  than  three  hundred  (for  in  my  estimate  I did 
not  include  the  outer  pedestals),  it  proves  very  noble  vitality 
in  the  art  of  the  time. 

XXIV.  I believe  the  right  question  to  ask,  respecting  all 
ornament,  is  simply  this  : Was  it  done  with  enjoyment — was 
the  carver  happy  while  he  was  about  it  ? It  may  be  the  hard- 
est work  possible,  and  the  harder  because  so  much  pleasure 
was  taken  in  it ; but  it  must  have  been  happy  too,  or  it  will 
not  be  living.  How  much  of  the  stone  mason  s toil  this  con- 
dition would  exclude  I hardly  venture  to  consider,  but  the 
condition  is  absolute.  There  is  a Gothic  church  lately  built 
near  Rouen,  vile  enough,  indeed,  in  its  general  composition, 
but  excessively  rich  in  detail ; many  of  the  details  are  designed 
with  taste,  and  all  evidently  by  a man  who  has  studied  old 
work  closely.  But  it  is  all  as  dead  as  leaves  in  December  $ 


166 


THE  LAMP  OF  LIFE . 


there  is  not  one  tender  touch,  not  one  warm  stroke,  on  the 
whole  facade.  The  men  who  did  it  hated  it,  and  were  thank- 
ful when  it  was  done.  And  so  long  as  they  do  so  they  are 
merely  loading  your  walls  with  shapes  of  clay : the  garlands 
of  everlastings  in  Pere  la  Chaise  are  more  cheerful  ornaments. 
You  cannot  get  the  feeling  by  paying  for  it — money  will  not 
buy  life.  I am  not  sure  even  that  you  can  get  it  by  watching 
or  waiting  for  it.  It  is  true  that  here  and  there  a workman 
may  be  found  who  has  it  in  him,  but  he  does  not  rest  con- 
tented in  the  inferior  work — he  struggles  forward  into  an 
Academician  ; and  from  the  mass  of  available  handicraftsmen 
the  power  is  gone — how  recoverable  I know  not : this  only  I 
know,  that  all  expense  devoted  to  sculptural  ornament,  in  the 
present  condition  of  that  power,  comes  literally  under  the 
head  of  Sacrifice  for  the  sacrifice’s  sake,  or  worse.  I believe 
the  only  manner  of  rich  ornament  that  is  open  to  us  is  the 
geometrical  color-mosaic,  and  that  much  might  result  from  our 
strenuously  taking  up  this  mode  of  design.  But,  at  all  events, 
one  thing  we  have  in  our  power — the  doing  without  machine 
ornament  and  cast-iron  work.  All  the  stamped  metals,  and 
artificial  stones,  and  imitation  wToods  and  bronzes,  over  the 
invention  of  which  we  hear  daily  exultation — all  the  short,  and 
cheap,  and  easy  ways  of  doing  that  whose  difficulty  is  its  honor 
— are  just  so  many  new  obstacles  in  our  already  encumbered 
road.  They  will  not  make  one  of  us  happier  or  wiser — they 
will  extend  neither  the  pride  of  judgment  nor  the  privilege  of 
enjoyment.  They  will  only  make  us  shallower  in  our  under- 
standings, colder  in  our  hearts,  and  feebler  in  our  wits.  And 
most  justly.  For  we  are  not  sent  into  this  w7orld  to  do  any 
thing  into  which  wTe  cannot  put  our  hearts.  We  have  certain 
work  to  do  for  our  bread,  and  that  is  to  be  done  strenuously ; 
other  work  to  do  for  our  delight,  and  that  is  to  be  done  heart- 
ily : neither  is  to  be  done  by  halves  or  shifts,  but  with  a will ; 
and  what  is  not  worth  this  effort  is  not  to  be  done  at  all. 
Perhaps  all  that  we  have  to  do  is  meant  for  nothing  more  than 
an  exercise  of  the  heart  and  of  the  will,  and  is  useless  in  itself ; 
but,  at  all  events,  the  little  use  it  has  may  well  be  spared  if  it 
is  not  worth  putting  our  hands  and  our  strength  to.  It  does 


THE  L AMP-0 F MEMORY. 


167 


not  become  our  immortality  to  take  an  ease  inconsistent  with 
its  authority,  nor  to  suffer  any  instruments  with  which  it  can 
dispense,  to  come  between  it  and  the  things  it  rules  : and  he 
who  would  form  the  creations  of  his  own  mind  by  any  other 
instrument  than  his  own  hand,  would,  also,  if  he  might,  give 
grinding  organs  to  Heaven’s  angels,  to  make  their  music  easier. 
There  is  dreaming  enough,  and  earthiness  enough,  and  sensu- 
ality enough  in  human  existence  without  our  turning  the  few 
glowing  moments  of  it  into  mechanism  ; and  since  our  life 
must  at  the  best  be  but  a vapor  that  appears  for  a little  time 
and  then  vanishes  away,  let  it  at  least  appear  as  a cloud  in  the 
height  of  Heaven,  not  as  the  thick  darkness  that  broods  over 
the  blast  of  the  Furnace,  and  rolling  of  the  Wheel 


CHAPTEK  VI. 

THE  LAMP  OF  MEMORY. 

I.  Among  the  hours  of  his  life  to  which  the  writer  looks 
back  with  peculiar  gratitude,  as  having  been  marked  by  more 
than  ordinary  fulness  of  joy  or  clearness  of  teaching,  is  one 
passed,  now  some  years  ago,  near  time  of  sunset,  among  the 
broken  masses  of  pine  forest  which  skirt  the  course  of  the 
Ain,  above  the  village  of  Champagnole,  in  the  Jura.  It  is  a 
spot  which  has  all  the  solemnity,  with  none  of  the  savageness, 
of  the  Alps ; where  there  is  a sense  of  a great  power  begin- 
ning to  be  manifested  in  the  earth,  and  of  a deep  and  majestic 
concord  in  the  rise  of  the  long  low  lines  of  piny  hills  ; the 
first  utterance  of  those  mighty  mountain  symphonies,  soon  to 
be  more  loudly  lifted  and  wildly  broken  along  the  battlements 
of  the  Alps.  But  their  strength  is  as  yet  restrained  ; and  the 
far-reaching  ridges  of  pastoral  mountain  succeed  each  other, 
like  the  long  and  sighing  swell  which  moves  over  quiet  waters 
from  some  far-off  stormy  sea.  And  there  is  a deep  tenderness 
pervading  that  vast  monotony.  The  destructive  forces  and 
the  stern  expression  of  the  central  ranges  are  alike  withdrawn. 
No  frost-ploughed,  dust-encumbered  paths  of  ancient  glacier 


163 


THE  LAMP  OF  MEMORY. 


fret  the  soft  Jura  pastures  ; no  splintered  heaps  of  ruin  breali 
the  fair  ranks  of  her  forests  ; no  pale,  defiled,  or  furious  rivers 
rend  their  rude  and  changeful  ways  among  her  rocks.  Pa- 
tiently, eddy  by  eddy,  the  clear  green  streams  wind  along  their 
well-known  beds  ; and  under  the  dark  quietness  of  the  undis- 
turbed pines,  there  spring  up,  year  by  year,  such  company  of 
joyful  flowers  as  I know  not  the  like  of  among  all  the  bless- 
ings of  the  earth.  It  was  Spring  time,  too  ; and  all  were  com- 
ing forth  in  clusters  crowded  for  very  love  ; there  was  room 
enough  for  all,  but  they  crushed  their  leaves  into  all  manner 
of  strange  shapes  only  to  be  nearer  each  other.  There  was 
the  wood  anemone,  star  after  star,  closing  every  now  and  then 
into  nebulae : and  there  was  the  oxalis,  troop  by  troop  like 
virginal  processions  of  the  Mois  de  Marie,  the  dark  vertical 
clefts  in  the  limestone  choked  up  with  them  as  with  heavy 
snow,  and  touched  with  ivy  on  the  edges — ivy  as  light  and 
lovely  as  the  vine  ; and  ever  and  anon,  a blue  gush  of  violets, 
and  cowslip  bells  in  sunny  places  ; and  in  the  more  open 
ground,  the  vetch,  and  comfrey,  and  mezereon,  and  the  small 
sapphire  buds  of  the  Polygala  Alpina,  and  the  wild  strawberry, 
just  a blossom  or  two,  all  showered  amidst  the  golden  softness 
of  deep,  warm,  amber-colored  moss.  I came  out  presently  on 
the  edge  of  the  ravine  ; the  solemn  murmur  of  its  waters  rose 
suddenly  from  beneath,  mixed  with  the  singing  of  the  thrushes 
among  the  pine  boughs ; and,  on  the  opposite  side  of  the 
valley,  walled  all  along  as  it  was  by  grey  cliffs  of  limestone, 
there  was  a hawk  sailing  slowly  off  their  brow,  touching  them 
nearly  with  his  wings,  and  with  the  shadow’s  of  the  pines 
flickering  upon  his  plumage  from  above  ; but  with  a fall  of  a 
hundred  fathoms  under  his  breast,  and  the  curling  pools  of  the 
green  river  gliding  and  glittering  dizzily  beneath  him,  their 
foam  globes  moving  with  him  as  he  flew.  It  would  be  diffi- 
cult to  conceive  a scene  less  dependent  upon  any  other  interest 
than  that  of  its  own  secluded  and  serious  beauty  ; but  the 
writer  well  remembers  the  sudden  blankness  and  chill  which 
were  cast  upon  it  when  he  endeavored,  in  order  more  strictly 
to  arrive  at  the  sources  of  its  impressiveness,  to  imagine  it,  for 
a moment,  a scene  in  some  aboriginal  forect  of  the  New  Con* 


THE  LAMP  OF  MEMORY. 


169 


tinent.  The  flowers  in  an  instant  lost  their  light,  the  river  its 
music  16 ; the  hills  became  oppressively  desolate  ; a heaviness 
in  the  boughs  of  the  darkened  forest  showed  how  much  of 
their  former  power  had  been  dependent  upon  a life  which  was 
not  theirs,  how  much  of  the  glory  of  the  imperishable,  or  con- 
tinually renewed,  creation  is  reflected  from  things  more  pre- 
cious in  their  memories  than  it,  in  its  renewing.  Those  ever 
springing  flowers  and  ever  flowing  streams  had  been  dyed  by 
the  deep  colors  of  human  endurance,  valor,  and  virtue  ; and 
the  crests  of  the  sable  hills  that  rose  against  the  evening  sky 
received  a deeper  worship,  because  their  far  shadows  fell  east- 
ward over  the  iron  wall  of  Joux  and  the  four-square  keep  of 
Granson. 

II.  It  is  as  the  centralisation  and  protectress  of  this  sacred 
influence,  that  Ai'chitecture  is  to  be  regarded  by  us  with  the 
most  serious  thought.  We  may  live  without  her,  and  worship 
without  her,  but  we  cannot  remember  without  her.  How  cold 
is  all  history  how  lifeless  all  imagery,  compared  to  that  which 
the  living  nation  writes,  and  the  uncorrupted  marble  bears ! 
how  many  pages  of  doubtful  record  might  we  not  often  spare, 
for  a few  stones  left  one  upon  another  ! The  ambition  of  the 
old  Babel  builders  was  well  directed  for  this  world  : there  are 
but  two  strong  conquerors  of  the  forgetfulness  of  men,  Poetry 
and  Architecture  ; and  the  latter  in  some  sort  includes  the 
former,  and  is  mightier  in  its  reality ; it  is  well  to  have,  not 
only  what  men  have  thought  and  felt,  but  what  their  hands 
have  handled,  and  their  strength  wrought,  and  their  eyes 
beheld,  all  the  days  of  their  life.  The  age  of  Homer  is  sur- 
rounded with  darkness,  his  very  personality  with  doubt.  Not 
so  that  of  Pericles  : and  the  day  is  coming  when  we  shall  con- 
fess, that  we  have  learned  more  of  Greece  out  of  the  crumbled 
fragments  of  her  sculpture  than  even  from  her  sweet  singers 
or  soldier  historians.  And  if  indeed  there  be  any  profit  in  our 
knowledge  of  the  past,  or  any  joy  in  the  thought  of  being  re- 
membered hereafter,  which  can  give  strength  to  present  exer- 
tion, or  patience  to  present  endurance,  there  are  two  duties 
respecting  national  architecture  whose  importance  it  is  impos- 
sible to  overrate  ; the  first,  to  render  the  architecture  of  the 


170 


THE  LAMP  OF  MEMORY. 


day  historical ; and,  the  second,  to  preserve,  as  the  most  pre- 
cious of  inheritances,  that  of  past  ages. 

IH.  It  is  in  the  first  of  these  two  directions  that  Memory 
may  truly  be  said  to  be  the  Sixth  Lamp  of  Architecture  ; for 
it  is  in  becoming  memorial  or  monumental  that  a true  perfec- 
tion is  attained  by  civil  and  domestic  buildings  ; and  this  partly 
as  they  are,  with  such  a view,  built  in  a more  stable  manner, 
and  partly  as  their  decorations  are  consequently  animated  by  a 
metaphorical  or  historical  meaning. 

As  regards  domestic  buildings,  there  must  always  be  a cer- 
tain limitation  to  views  of  this  kind  in  the  power,  as  well  as  in 
the  hearts,  of  men  ; still  I cannot  but  think  it  an  evil  sign  of 
a people  when  their  houses  are  built  to  last  for  one  generation 
only.  There  is  a sanctity  in  a good  man’s  house  which  cannot 
be  renewed  in  every  tenement  that  rises  on  its  Turns:  and  I 
believe  that  good  men  would  generally  feel  this  ; and  that 
having  spent  their  lives  happily  and  honorably,  they  would  be 
grieved  at  the  close  of  them  to  think  that  the  place  of  their 
earthly  abode,  "which  had  seen,  and  seemed  almost  to  sympa- 
thise in  all  their  honor,  their  gladness,  or  their  suffering, — 
that  this,  with  all  the  record  it  bare  of  them,  and  all  of  material 
things  that  they  had  loved  and  ruled  over,  and  set  the  stamp 
of  themselves  upon — was  to  be  swept  away,  as  soon  as  there 
was  room  made  for  them  in  the  grave  ; that  no  respect  was  to 
be  shown  to  it,  no  affection  felt  for  it,  no  good  to  be  drawn 
from  it  by  their  children  ; that  though  there  was  a monument 
in  the  church,  there  was  no  warm  monument  in  the  heart  and 
house  to  them  ; that  all  that  they  ever  treasured  was  despised, 
and  the  places  that  had  sheltered  and  comforted  them  were 
dragged  down  to  the  dust.  I say  that  a good  man  would  fear 
this  ; and  that,  far  more,  a good  son,  a noble  descendant,  would 
fear  doing  it  to  his  father’s  house.  I say  that  if  men  lived  like 
men  indeed,  their  houses  would  be  temples — temples  which  we 
should  hardly  dare  to  injure,  and  in  which  it  would  make  us 
holy  to  be  permitted  to  live  ; and  there  must  be  a strange  dis- 
solution of  natural  affection,  a strange  unthankfulness  for  all 
that  homes  have  given  and  parents  taught,  a strange  conscious- 
ness that  we  have  been  unfaithful  to  our  fathers’  honor,  or  that 


THE  LAMP  OF  MEMORY. 


171 


our  own  lives  are  not  such  as  would  make  our  dwellings  sacred 
to  our  children,  when  each  man  would  fain  build  to  himself, 
and  build  for  the  little  revolution  of  his  own  life  only.  And  I 
look  upon  those  pitiful  concretions  of  lime  and  clay  which 
spring  up  in  mildewed  forwardness  out  of  the  kneaded  fields 
about  our  capital — upon  those  thin,  tottering,  foundationless 
shells  of  splintered  wood  and  imitated  stone — upon  those 
gloomy  rows  of  formalised  minuteness,  alike  without  difference 
and  without  fellowship,  as  solitary  as  similar — not  merely  with 
the  careless  disgust  of  an  offended  eye,  not  merely  with  sor- 
row for  a desecrated  landscape,  but  with  a painful  foreboding 
that  the  roots  of  our  national  greatness  must  be  deeply  can- 
kered when  they  are  thus  loosely  struck  in  their  native  ground ; 
that  those  comfortless  and  unhonored  dwellings  are  the  signs 
. of  a great  and  spreading  spirit  of  popular  discontent ; that 
they  mark  the  time  when  every  man’s  aim  is  to  be  in  some 
more  elevated  sphere  than  his  natural  one,  and  every  man’s 
past  life  is  his  habitual  scorn  ; when  men  build  in  the  hope  of 
leaving  the  places  they  have  built,  and  live  in  the  hope  of  for- 
getting the  years  that  they  have  lived  ; when  the  comfort,  the 
peace,  the  religion  of  home  have  ceased  to  be  felt ; and  the 
crowded  tenements  of  a struggling  and  restless  population  dif- 
fer only  from  the  tents  of  the  Arab  or  the  Gipsy  by  their  less 
healthy  openness  to  the  air  of  heaven,  and  less  happy  choice  of 
their  spot  of  earth ; by  their  sacrifice  of  liberty  without  the 
gain  of  rest,  and  of  stability  without  the  luxury  of  change. 

IV.  This  is  no  slight,  no  consequenceless  evil : it  is  omi- 
nous, infectious,  and  fecund  of  other  fault  and  misfortune. 
When  men  do  not  love  their  hearths,  nor  reverence  their 
thresholds,  it  is  a sign  that  they  have  dishonored  both,  and  that 
they  have  never  acknowledged  the  true  universality  of  that 
Christian  worship  which  was  indeed  to  supersede  the  idolatry, 
but  not  the  piety,  of  the  pagan.  Our  God  is  a household 
God,  as  well  as  a heavenly  one  ; He  has  an  altar  in  every 
man’s  dwelling  ; let  men  look  to  it  when  they  rend  it  lightly 
and  pour  out  its  ashes.  It  is  not  a question  of  mere  ocular 
delight,  it  is  no  question  of  intellectual  pride,  or  of  cultivated 
and  critical  fancy,  how,  and  with  what  aspect  of  durability 


172 


THE  LAMP  OF  MEMORY. 


and  of  completeness,  the  domestic  buildings  of  a nation  shall 
be  raised.  It  is  one  of  those  moral  duties,  not  with  more 
impunity  to  be  neglected  because  the  perception  of  them  de- 
pends on  a finely  toned  and  balanced  conscientiousness,  to 
build  our  dwellings  with  care,  and  patience,  and  fondness, 
and  diligent  completion,  and  with  a view  to  their  duration  at 
least  for  such  a period  as,  in  the  ordinary  course  of  national 
revolutions,  might  be  supposed  likely  to  extend  to  the  entire 
alteration  of  the  direction  of  local  interests.  This  at  the 
least ; but  it  would  be  better  if,  in  every  possible  instance, 
men  built  their  own  houses  on  a scale  commensurate  rather 
with  their  condition  at  the  commencement,  than  their  attain- 
ments at  the  termination,  of  their  worldly  career ; and  built 
them  to  stand  as  long  as  human  work  at  its  strongest  can  be 
hoped  to  stand  ; recording  to  their  children  what  they  have 
been,  and  from  what,  if  so  it  had  been  permitted  them,  they 
had  risen.  And  when  houses  are  thus  built,  we  may  have 
that  true  domestic  architecture,  the  beginning  of  all  other, 
which  does  not  disdain  to  treat  with  respect  and  thoughtful- 
ness the  small  habitation  as  well  as  the  large,  and  which  in- 
vests with  the  dignity  of  contented  manhood  the  narrowness 
of  worldly  circumstance. 

Y.  I look  to  this  spirit  of  honorable,  proud,  peaceful  self- 
possession,  this  abiding  wisdom  of  contented  life,  as  probably 
one  of  the  chief  sources  of  great  intellectual  power  in  all  ages, 
and  beyond  dispute  as  the  very  primal  source  of  the  great 
architecture  of  old  Italy  and  France.  To  this  day,  the  interest 
of  their  fairest  cities  depends,  not  on  the  isolated  richness  of 
palaces,  but  on  the  cherished  and  exquisite  decoration  of 
even  the  smallest  tenements  of  their  proud  periods.  The 
most  elaborate  piece  of  architecture  in  Venice  is  a small  house 
at  the  head  of  the  Grand  Canal,  consisting  of  a ground  floor 
with  two  stories  above,  three  windows  in  the  first,  and  two  in 
the  second.  Many  of  the  most  exquisite  buildings  are  on 
the  narrower  canals,  and  of  no  larger  dimensions.  One  of 
the  most  interesting  pieces  of  fifteenth  century  architecture  in 
North  Italy,  is  a small  house  in  a back  street,  behind  the 
market-place  of  Vicenza ; it  bears  date  1481,  and  the  motto, 


THE  LAMP  OF  MEMORY. 


173 


II.  n’est.  rose.  sans,  epine  ; it  has  also  only  a ground  floor  and 
two  stories,  with  three  windows  in  each,  separated  by  rich 
flower- work,  and  with  balconies,  supported,  the  central  one 
by  an  eagle  with  open  wings,  the  lateral  ones  by  winged 
griffins  standing  on  cornucopia?.  The  idea  that  a house  must 
be  large  in  order  to  be  well  built,  is  altogether  of  modern 
growth,  and  is  parallel  with  the  idea,  that  no  picture  can  be 
historical,  except  of  a size  admitting  figures  larger  than  life. 

YL  I would  have,  then,  our  ordinary  dwelhng-houses  built 
to  last,  and  built  to  be  lovely  ; as  rich  and  full  of  pleasantness 
as  may  be,  within  and  without ; with  what  degree  of  likeness 
to  each  other  in  style  and  manner,  I will  say  presently,  under 
another  head  ; but,  at  all  events,  with  such  differences  as  might 
suit  and  express  each  man’s  character  and  occupation,  and 
partly  his  history.  This  right  over  the  house,  I conceive,  be- 
longs to  its  first  builder,  and  is  to  be  respected  by  his  children  ; 
and  it  would  be  well  that  blank  stones  should  be  left  in  places, 
to  be  inscribed  with  a summary  of  his  life  and  of  its  experi- 
ence, raising  thus  the  habitation  into  a kind  of  monument,  and 
developing,  into  more  systematic  instructiveness,  that  good 
custom  which  was  of  old  universal,  and  which  still  remains 
among  some  of  the  Swiss  and  Germans,  of  acknowledging  the 
grace  of  God’s  permission  to  build  and  possess  a quiet  resting- 
place,  in  such  sweet  words  as  may  well  close  our  speaking  of 
these  things.  I have  taken  them  from  the  front  of  a cottage 
lately  built  among  the  green  pastures  which  descend  from  the 
village  of  Grindelwald  to  the  lower  glacier : — 

“ Mit  herzlichem  Vertrauen 
Hat  Johannes  Mooter  und  Maria  Rubi 
Dieses  Haus  bauen  lassen. 

Der  liebe  Gott  woll  uns  bewaliren 
Vor  allem  Unglack  und  Gefahren, 

Und  es  in  Segen  lassen  stehn 

Auf  der  Reise  durch  diese  Jainmerzeit 

Nach  dem  liimmlischeu  Paradiese, 

Wo  alle  Frommen  wohnen, 

Da  wird  Gott  sie  belohnen 
Mit  der  Friedenskrone 
Zu  alle  Ewigkeit.” 


174 


THE  LAMP  OF  MEMORY. 


VII.  In  public  buildings  the  historical  purpose  should  be 
still  more  definite.  It  is  one  of  the  advantages  of  Gothic 
architecture, — I use  the  word  Gothic  in  the  most  extended 
sense  as  broadly  opposed  to  classical, — that  it  admits  of  a rich- 
ness of  record  altogether  unlimited.  Its  minute  and  multi- 
tudinous sculptural  decorations  afford  means  of  expressing, 
either  symbolically  or  literally,  all  that  need  be  known  of  na- 
tional feeling  or  achievement.  More  decoration  will,  indeed, 
be  usually  required  than  can  take  so  elevated  a character  ; and 
much,  even  in  the  most  thoughtful  periods,  has  been  left  to 
the  freedom  of  fancy,  or  suffered  to  consist  of  mere  repetitions 
of  some  national  bearing  or  symbol.  It  is,  however,  generally 
unwise,  even  in  mere  surface  ornament,  to  surrender  the  power 
and  privilege  of  variety  which  the  spirit  of  Gothic  architecture 
admits  ; much  more  in  important  features — capitals  of  columns 
or  bosses,  and  string-courses,  as  of  course  in  all  confessed 
bas-reliefs.  Better  the  rudest  work  that  tells  a story  or  records 
a fact,  than  the  richest  without  meaning.  There  should  not 
be  a single  ornament  put  upon  great  civic  buildings,  without 
some  intellectual  intention.  Actual  representation  of  history 
has  in  modern  times  been  checked  by  a difficulty,  mean  in- 
deed, but  steadfast  : that  of  unmanageable  costume  ; never- 
theless, by  a sufficiently  bold  imaginative  treatment,  and  frank 
use  of  symbols,  all  such  obstacles  may  be  vanquished  ; not 
perhaps  in  the  degree  necessary  to  produce  sculpture  in  itself 
satisfactory,  but  at  all  events  so  as  to  enable  it  to  become  a 
grand  and  expressive  element  of  architectural  composition. 
Take,  for  example,  the  management  of  the  capitals  of  the  ducal 
palace  at  Venice.  History,  as  such,  was  indeed  entrusted  to 
the  painters  of  its  interior,  but  every  capital  of  its  arcades  was 
filled  with  meaning.  The  large  one,  the  corner  stone  of  the 
whole,  next  the  entrance,  was  devoted  to  the  symbolisation  of 
Abstract  Justice  ; above  it  is  a sculpture  of  the  Judgment  of, 
Solomon,  remarkable  for  a beautiful  subjection  in  its  treat- 
ment to  its  decorative  purpose.  The  figures,  if  the  subject 
had  been  entirely  composed  of  them,  would  have  awkwardly 
interrupted  the  line  of  the  angle,  and  diminished  its  apparent 
strength  ; and  therefore  in  the  midst  of  them,  entirely  without 


THE  LAMP  OF  MEMORY. 


175 


relation  to  them,  and  indeed  actually  between  the  executioner 
and  interceding  mother,  there  rises  the  ribbed  trunk  of  a massy 
tree,  which  supports  and  continues  the  shaft  of  the  angle,  and 
whose  leaves  above  overshadow  and  enrich  the  whole.  The 
capital  below  bears  among  its  leafage  a throned  figure  of  Jus- 
tice, Trajan  doing  justice  to  the  widow,  Aristotle  “ che  die 
legge,”  and  one  or  two  other  subjects  now  unintelligible  from 
decay.  The  capitals  next  in  order  represent  the  virtues  and 
vices  in  succession,  as  preservative  or  destructive  of  national 
peace  and  power,  concluding  with  Faith,  with  the  inscription 
“Fides  optima  in  Deo  est.”  A figure  is  seen  on  the  opposite 
side  of  the  capital,  worshipping  the  sun.  After  these,  one  or 
two  capitals  are  fancifully  decorated  with  birds  (Plate  V.),  and 
then  come  a series  representing,  first  the  various  fruits,  then 
the  national  costumes,  and  then  the  animals  of  the  various 
countries  subject  to  Venetian  rule. 

VIII.  Now,  not  to  speak  of  any  more  important  public 
building,  let  us  imagine  our  own  India  House  adorned  in  this 
way,  by  historical  or  symbolical  sculpture  : massively  built  in 
the  first  place  ; then  chased  with  bas-reliefs  of  our  Indian  bat- 
tles, and  fretted  with  carvings  of  Oriental  foliage,  or  inlaid  with 
Oriental  stones ; and  the  more  important  members  of  its  deco- 
ration composed  of  groups  of  Indian  life  and  landscape,  and 
prominently  expressing  the  phantasms  of  Hindoo  worship  in 
their  subjection  to  the  Cross.  Would  not  one  such  work  be 
better  than  a thousand  histories  ? If,  howrever,  we  have  not 
the  invention  necessary  for  such  efforts,  or  if,  which  is  proba- 
bly one  of  the  most  noble  excuses  w^e  can  offer  for  our  defi- 
ciency in  such  matters,  wTe  have  less  pleasure  in  talking  about 
ourselves,  even  in  marble,  than,  the  Continental  nations,  at  least 
we  have  no  excuse  for  any  want  of  care  in  the  points  which  in- 
sure the  building’s  endurance.  And  as  this  question  is  one  of 
great  interest  in  its  relations  to  the  choice  of  various  modes  of 
decoration,  it  will  be  necessary  to  enter  into  it  at  some  length. 

IX.  The  benevolent  regards  and  purposes  of  men  in  masses 
seldom  can  be  supposed  to  extend  beyond  their  own  genera- 
tion. They  may  look  to  posterity  as  an  audience,  may  hope 
for  its  attention,  and  labor  for  its  praise : they  may  trust  to 


THE  LAME  OF  MEMORY. 


LTG 

its  recognition  of  unacknowledged  merit,  and  demand  its  ju» 
tice  for  contemporary  wrong.  But  all  this  is  mere  selfishness, 
and  does  not  involve  the  slightest  regard  to,  or  consideration 
of,  the  interest  of  those  by  whose  numbers  wTe  would  fain  swell 
the  circle  of  our  flatterers,  and  by  whose  authority  we  would 
gladly  support  our  presently  disputed  claims.  The  idea  of 
self-denial  for  the  sake  of  posterity,  of  practising  present  econ- 
omy for  the  sake  of  debtors  yet  unborn,  of  planting  forests 
that  our  descendants  may  live  under  their  shade,  or  of  raising 
cities  for  future  nations  to  inhabit,  never,  I suppose,  efficiently 
takes  place  among  publicly  recognised  motives  of  exertion. 
Yet  these  are  not  the  less  our  duties  ; nor  is  our  part  fitly 
sustained  upon  the  earth,  unless  the  range  of  our  intended 
and  deliberate  usefulness  include  not  only  the  companions, 
but  the  successors,  of  our  pilgrimage.  God  has  lent  us  the 
earth  for  our  life  ; it  is  a great  entail.  It  belongs  as  much  to 
those  who  are  to  come  after  us,  and  whose  names  are  already 
written  in  the  book  of  creation,  as  to  us  ; and  we  have  no 
right,  by  anything  that  we  do  or  neglect,  to  involve  them  in 
unnecessary  penalties,  or  deprive  them  of  benefits  which  it 
was  in  our  power  to  bequeath.  And  this  the  more,  because  it 
is  one  of  the  appointed  conditions  of  the  labor  of  men  that,  in 
proportion  to  the  time  between  the  seed-sowing  and  the  har- 
vest, is  the  fulness  of  the  fruit ; and  that  generally,  therefore, 
the  farther  off  we  place  our  aim,  and  the  less  we  desire  to  be 
ourselves  the  witnesses  of  what  we  have  labored  for,  the  more 
wide  and  rich  will  be  the  measure  of  our  success.  Men  can- 
not benefit  those  that  are  with  them  as  they  can  benefit  those 
who  come  after  them  ; and  of  all  the  pulpits  from  which  human 
voice  is  ever  sent  forth,  there  is  none  from  which  it  reaches  so 
far  as  from  the  grave. 

X.  Nor  is  there,  indeed,  any  present  loss,  in  such  respect, 
for  futurity.  Every  human  action  gains  in  honor,  in  grace,  in 
all  true  magnificence,  by  its  regard  to  things  that  are  to  come.  I 
It  is  the  far  sight,  the  quiet  and  confident  patience,  that,  above  I 
all  other  attributes,  separate  man  from  man,  and  near  him  to  ! 
his  Maker  ; and  there  is  no  action  nor  art,  whose  majesty  we  I 
may  not  measure  by  this  test.  Therefore,  when  we  build,  let 


THE  LAMP  OF  MEMORY. 


177 


think  that  we  build  for  ever.  Let  it  not  be  for  present  de- 
light, nor  for  present  use  alone  ; let  it  be  such  work  as  our 
descendants  will  thank  us  for,  and  let  us  think,  as  we  lay  stone 
on  stone,  that  a time  is  to  come  when  those  stones  will  be  held 
sacred  because  our  hands  have  touched  them,  and  that  men 
will  say  as  they  look  upon  the  labor  and  wrought  substance  ol 
them,  “ See ! this  our  fathers  did  for  us.”  For,  indeed,  the 
greatest  glory  of  a building  is  not  in  its  stones,  or  in  its  gold. 
Its  glory  is  in  its  Age,  and  in  that  deep  sense  of  voicefulness, 
of  stern  watching,  of  mysterious  sympathy,  nay,  even  of  ap- 
proval or  condemnation,  which  we  feel  in  walls  that  have  long 
been  washed  by  the  passing  waves  of  humanity.  It  is  in  their 
lasting  witness  against  men,  in  their  quiet  contrast  with  the 
transitional  character  of  all  things,  in  the  strength  which, 
through  the  lapse  of  seasons  and  times,  and  the  decline  and 
birth  of  dynasties,  and  the  changing  of  the  face  of  the  earth, 
and  of  the  limits  of  the  sea,  maintains  its  sculptured  shapeli- 
ness for  a time  insuperable,  connects  forgotten  and  following 
ages  with  each  other,  and  half  constitutes  the  identity,  as  it 
concentrates  the  sympathy,  of  nations  ; it  is  in  that  golden 
stain  of  time,  that  we  are  to  look  for  the  real  light,  and  color, 
and  preciousness  of  architecture  ; and  it  is  not  until  a build- 
ing has  assumed  this  character,  till  it  has  been  entrusted  with 
the  fame,  and  hallowed  by  the  deeds  of  men,  till  its  walls  have 
been  witnesses  of  suffering,  and  its  pillars  rise  out  of  the  shad- 
ows of  death,  that  its  existence,  more  lasting  as  it  is  than  that 
of  the  natural  objects  of  the  world  around  it,  can  be  gifted 
with  even  so  much  as  these  possess  of  language  and  of  life. 

XI.  For  that  period,  then,  we  must  build  ; not,  indeed,  re- 
fusing to  ourselves  the  delight  of  present  completion,  nor  hesi- 
tating to  follow  such  portions  of  character  as  may  depend 
upon  delicacy  of  execution  to  the  highest  perfection  of  which 
they  are  capable,  even  although  we  may  know  that  in  the 
course  of  years  such  details  must  perish  ; but  taking  care  that 
for  work  of  this  kind  we  sacrifice  no  enduring  quality,  and 
that  the  building  shall  not  depend  for  its  impressiveness  upon 
anything  that  is  perishable.  This  would,  indeed,  be  the  law 
of  good  compos ion  under  any  circumstances,  the  arrange- 
12 


178 


THE  LAMP  OF  MEMORY. 


ment  of  the  larger  masses  being  always  a matter  of  greatei 
importance  than  the  treatment  of  the  smaller ; but  in  archi- 
tecture there  is  much  in  that  very  treatment  which  is  skilful 
or  otherwise  in  proportion  to  its  just  regard  to  the  probable 
effects  of  time  : and  (which  is  still  more  to  be  considered) 
there  is  a beauty  in  those  effects  themselves,  which  nothing 
else  can  replace,  and  which  it  is  our  wisdom  to  consult  and 
to  desire.  For  though,  hitherto,  we  have  been  speaking  of 
the  sentiment  of  age  only,  there  is  an  actual  beauty  in  the 
marks  of  it,  such  and  so  great  as  to  have  become  not  unfre- 
quently  the  subject  of  especial  choice  among  certain  schools 
of  art,  and  to  have  impressed  upon  those  schools  the  charac- 
ter usually  and  loosely  expressed  by  the  term  “ picturesque.” 
It  is  of  some  importance  to  our  present  purpose  to  determine 
the  true  meaning  of  this  expression,  as  it  is  now  generally 
used  ; for  there  is  a principle  to  be  developed  from  that  use 
which,  while  it  has  occultly  been  the  ground  of  much  that  is 
true  and  just  in  our  judgment  of  art,  has  never  been  so  far 
understood  as  to  become  definitely  serviceable.  Probably 
no  word  in  the  language  (exclusive  of  theological  expres- 
sions), has  been  the  subject  of  so  frequent  or  so  prolonged 
dispute  ; yet  none  remained  more  vague  in  their  acceptance, 
and  it  seems  to  me  to  be  a matter  of  no  small  interest  to  in- 
vestigate the  essence  of  that  idea  which  all  feel,  and  (to  ap- 
pearance) with  respect  to  similar  things,  and  yet  which  every 
attempt  to  define  has,  as  I believe,  ended  either  in  mere  enu- 
meration of  the  effects  and  objects  to  which  the  term  has  been 
attached,  or  else  in  attempts  at  abstraction  more  palpably 
nugatory  than  any  which  have  disgraced  metaphysical  investi- 
gation on  other  subjects.  A recent  critic  on  Art,  for  instance, 
has  gravely  advanced  the  theory  that  the  essence  of  the  pictu- 
resque consists  in  the  expression  of  “universal  decay.”  It 
would  be  curious  to  see  the  result  of  an  attempt  to  illustrate 
this  idea  of  the  picturesque,  in  a painting  of  dead  flowers 
and  decayed  fruit,  and  equally  curious  to  trace  the  steps  of 
any  reasoning  which,  on  such  a theory,  should  account  for  tlie 
picturesqueness  of  an  ass  colt  as  opposed  to  a horse  foal.  But 
there  is  much  excuse  for  even  the  most  utter  failure  in  rejv 


THE  LAMP  OF  MEMORY. 


179 


sonings  of  this  kind,  since  the  subject  is,  indeed,  one  of  the 
most  obscure  of  all  that  may  legitimately  be  submitted  to 
human  reason  ; and  the  idea  is  itself  so  varied  in  the  minds 
of  different  men,  according  to  their  subjects  of  study,  that  no 
definition  can  be  expected  to  embrace  more  than  a certain 
number  of  its  infinitely  multiplied  forms. 

XII.  That  peculiar  character,  however,  which  separates  the 
picturesque  from  the  characters  of  subject  belonging  to  the 
higher  walks  of  art  (and  this  is  all  that  is  necessary  for  our 
present  purpose  to  define),  may  be  shortly  and  decisively  ex- 
pressed. Picturesqueness,  in  this  sense,  is  Parasitical  Sublim- 
ity. Of  course  all  sublimity,  as  well  as  all  beauty,  is,  in  the 
simple  etymological  sense,  picturesque,  that  is  to  say,  fit  to 
become  the  subject  of  a picture  ; and  all  sublimity  is,  even  in 
the  peculiar  sense  which  I am  endeavoring  to  develope,  pict- 
uresque, as  opposed  to  beauty  ; that  is  to  say,  there  is  more 
picturesqueness  in  the  subject  of  Michael  Angelo  than  of  Pe- 
rugino,  in  proportion  to  the  prevalence  of  the  sublime  element 
over  the  beautiful.  But  that  character,  of  which  the  extreme 
pursuit  is  generally  admitted  to  be  degrading  to  art,  is  para- 
sitical sublimity  ; i.e.,  a sublimity  dependent  on  the  accidents, 
or  on  the  least  essential  characters,  of  the  objects  to  which  it 
belongs  ; and  the  picturesque  is  developed  distinctively  exactly 
in  proportion  to  the  distance  from  the  centre  of  thought  of  those 
points  of  character  in  which  the  sublimity  is  found.  Two  ideas, 
therefore,  are  essential  to  picturesqueness, — the  first,  that  of 
sublimity  (for  pure  beauty  is  not  picturesque  at  all,  and  be- 
comes so  only  as  the  sublime  element  mixes  with  it),  and  the 
second,  the  subordinate  or  parasitical  position  of  that  sublim- 
ity. Of  course,  therefore,  whatever  characters  of  line  or  shade 
or  expression  are  productive  of  sublimity,  will  become  pro- 
ductive of  picturesqueness  ; what  these  characters  are  I shall 
endeavor  hereafter  to  show  at  length  ; but,  among  those  which 
are  generally  acknowledged,  I may  name  angular  and  broken 
lines,  vigorous  oppositions  of  light  and  shadow,  and  grave, 
deep,  or  boldly  contrasted  color  ; and  all  these  are  in  a still 
higher  degree  effective,  when,  by  resemblance  or  association, 
they  remind  us  of  objects  on  which  a true  and  essential  sub* 


180 


THE  LAMP  OF  MEMORY. 


limity  exists,  as  of  rocks  or  mountains,  or  stormy  clouds  o! 
waves.  Now  if  these  characters,  or  any  others  of  a higher  and 
more  abstract  sublimity,  be  found  in  the  very  heart  and  sub- 
stance of  what  we  contemplate,  as  the  sublimity  of  Michael 
Angelo  depends  on  the  expression  of  mental  character  in  his 
figures  far  more  than  even  on  the  noble  lines  of  their  arrange- 
ment, the  art  which  represents  such  characters  cannot  be 
properly  called  picturesque  : but,  if  they  be  found  in  the  ac- 
cidental or  external  qualities,  the  distinctive  picturesque  will 
be  the  result. 

XIII.  Thus,  in  the  treatment  of  the  features  of  the  human 
face  by  Francia  or  Angelico,  the  shadows  are  employed  only 
to  make  the  contours  of  the  features  thoroughly  felt  ; and  to 
those  features  themselves  the  mind  of  the  observer  is  exclu- 
sively directed  (that  is  to  say,  to  the  essential  characters  of 
the  thing  represented).  All  power  and  all  sublimity  rest  on 
these  ; the  shadows  are  used  only  for  the  sake ‘of  the  features. 
On  the  contrary,  by  Rembrandt,  Salvator,  or  Caravaggio,  the 
features  are  used  for  the  mice  of  the  shadoivs  ; and  the  atten- 
tion is  directed,  and  the  power  of  the  painter  addressed  to 
characters  of  accidental  light  and  shade  cast  across  or  around 
those  features.  In  the  case  of  Rembrandt  there  is  often  an 
essential  sublimity  in  invention  and  expression  besides,  and 
always  a high  degree  of  it  in  the  light  and  shade  itself  ; but 
it  is  for  the  most  part  parasitical  or  engrafted  sublimity  as 
regards  the  subject  of  the  painting,  and,  just  so  far,  pictu- 
resque. 

XIV.  Again,  in  the  management  of  the  sculptures  of  the 
Parthenon,  shadow  is  frequently  employed  as  a dark  field  on 
which  the  forms  are  drawn.  This  is  visibly  the  case  in  the 
metopes,  and  must  have  been  nearly  as  much  so  in  the  pedi- 
ment. But  the  use  of  that  shadow  is  entirely  to  show  the 
confines  of  the  figures  ; and  it  is  to  their  lines , and  not  to  the 
shapes  of  the  shadows  behind  them,  that  the  art  and  the  eye 
are  addressed.  The  figures  themselves  are  conceived  as  much 
as  possible  in  full  light,  aided  by  bright  reflections  ; they  are. 
drawn  exactly  as,  on  vases,  white  figures  on  a dark  ground  : 
and  the  sculptors  have  dispensed  with,  or  even  struggled  to 


THE  LAMP  OF  MEMORY. 


181 


avoid,  all  shadows  which  were  not  absolutely  necessary  to  the 
explaining  of  the  form.  On  the  contrary,  in  Gothic  sculpture, 
the  shadow  becomes  itself  a subject  of  thought.  It  is  con- 
sidered as  a dark  color,  to  be  arranged  in  certain  agreeable 
masses  ; the  figures  are  very  frequently  made  even  subordinate 
to  the  placing  of  its  divisions  : and  their  costume  is  enriched 
at  the  expense  of  the  forms  underneath,  in  order  to  increase 
the  complexity  and  variety  of  the  points  of  shade.  There  are 
thus,  both  in  sculpture  and  painting,  two,  in  some  sort,  oppo- 
site schools,  of  which  the  one  follows  for  its  subject  the  essen- 
tial forms  of  things,  and  the  other  the  accidental  lights  and 
shades  upon  them.  There  are  various  degrees  of  their  con- 
trariety : middle  steps,  as  in  the  w'orks  of  Correggio,  and  all 
degrees  of  nobility  and  of  degradation  in  the  several  manners : 
but  the  one  is  always  recognised  as  the  pure,  and  the  otliei 
as  the  picturesque  school.  Portions  of  picturesque  treatment 
will  be  found  in  Greek  work,  and  of  pure  and  mi  picturesque 
in  Gothic  ; and  in  both  there  are  countless  instances,  as  pre- 
eminently in  the  works  of  Michael  Angelo,  in  which  shadows 
become  valuable  as  media  of  expression,  and  therefore  take 
rank  among  essential  characteristics.  Into  these  multitudi- 
nous distinctions  and  exceptions  I cannot  now  enter,  desiring 
only  to  prove  the  broad  applicability  of  the  general  definition. 

XY.  Again,  the  distinction  will  be  found  to  exist,  not  only 
between  forms  and  shades  as  subjects  of  choice,  but  between 
essential  and  inessential  forms.  One  of  the  chief  distinctions 
between  the  dramatic  and  picturesque  schools  of  sculpture  is 
found  in  the  treatment  of  the  hair.  By  the  artists  of  the  time 
of  Pericles  it  was  considered  as  an  excrescence,10  indicated  by 
few  and  rude  lines,  and  subordinated  in  every  particular  to 
the  principality  of  the  features  and  person.  How  completely 
this  was  an  artistical,  not  a national  idea,  it  is  unnecessary  to 
prove.  We  need  but  remember  the  employment  of  the  Lace- 
daemonians, reported  by  the  Persian  spy  on  ’the  eveniug  be- 
fore the  battle  of  Thermopylae,  or  glance  at  any  Homeric 
description  of  ideal  form,  to  see  how  purely  sculpturesque  was 
the  law  which  reduced  the  markings  of  the  hair,  lest,  under 
the  necessary  disadvantages  of  material,  they  should  interfere 


182 


THE  LAMP  OF  MEMORY. 


with  the  distinctness  of  the  personal  forms.  On  the  contrary, 
in  later  sculpture,  the  hair  receives  almost  the  principal  cara 
of  the  workman  ; and  while  the  features  and  limbs  are  clum- 
sily and  bluntly  executed,  the  hair  is  curled  and  twisted,  cut 
into  bold  and  shadowy  projections,  and  arranged  in  masses 
elaborately  ornamental : there  is  true  sublimity  in  the  lines 
and  the  chiaroscuro  of  these  masses,  but  it  is,  as  regards  the 
creature  represented,  parasitical,  and  therefore  picturesque. 
In  the  same  sense  we  may  understand  the  application  of  the 
term  to  modern  animal  painting,  distinguished  as  it  has  been 
by  peculiar  attention  to  the  colors,  lustre,  and  texture  of 
skin  ; nor  is  it  in  art  alone  that  the  definition  will  hold.  In 
animals  themselves,  when  their  sublimity  depends  upon  their 
muscular  forms  or  motions,  or  necessary  and  principal  attri- 
butes, as  perhaps  more  than  all  others  in  the  horse,  we  do 
not  call  them  picturesque,  but  consider  them  as  peculiarly  fit 
to  be  associated  with  pure  historical  subject.  Exactly  in 
proportion  as  their  character  of  sublimity  passes  into  excres- 
cences ; — into  mane  and  beard  as  in  the  lion,  into  horns  as  in 
the  stag,  into  shaggy  hide  as  in  the  instance  above  given  of 
the  ass  colt,  into  variegation  as  iu  the  zebra,  or  into  plumage, 
— they  become  picturesque,  and  are  so  in  art  exactly  in  pro- 
portion to  the  prominence  of  these  excrescential  characters, 
It  may  often  be  most  expedient  that  they  should  be  promi- 
nent ; often  there  is  in  them  the  highest  degree  of  majesty, 
as  in  those  of  the  leopard  and  boar ; and  in  the  hands  of 
men  like  Tintoret  and  Kubens,  such  attributes  become  means 
of  deepening  the  very  highest  and  most  ideal  impressions. 
But  the  picturesque  direction  of  their  thoughts  is  always  dis- 
tinctly recognizable,  as  clinging  to  the  surface,  to  the  less 
essential  character,  and  as  developing  out  of  this  a sublimity 
different  from  that  of  the  creature  itself ; a sublimity  which 
is,  in  a sort,  common  to  all  the  objects  of  creation,  and  the 
same  in  its  constituent  elements,  whether  it  be  sought  in  the 
clefts  and  folds  of  shaggy  hair,  or  in  the  chasms  and  rents  of 
rocks,  or  in  the  hanging  of  thickets  or  hill  sides,  or  in  the 
alternations  of  gaiety  and  gloom  in  the  variegation  of  the 
shell,  the  plume,  or  the  cloud. 


THE  LAMP  OF  MEMORY. 


183 


XVI.  Now,  to  return  to  our  immediate  subject,  it  so  hap- 
pens that,  in  architecture,  the  superinduced  and  accidental 
beauty  is  most  commonly  inconsistent  with  the  preservation 
of  original  character,  and  the  picturesque  is  therefore  sought 
in  ruin,  and  supposed  to  consist  in  decay.  Whereas,  even 
when  so  sought,  it  consists  in  the  mere  sublimity  of  the 
rents,  or  fractures,  or  stains,  or  vegetation,  which  assimilate 
the  architecture  with  the  work  of  Nature,  and  bestow  upon  it 
those  circumstances  of  color  and  form  which  are  universally 
beloved  bjr  the  eye  of  man.  So  far  as  this  is  done,  to  the  ex- 
tinction of  the  true  characters  of  the  architecture,  it  is  pict- 
uresque, and  the  artist  who  looks  to  the  stem  of  the  ivy  in- 
stead of  the  shaft  of  the  pillar,  is  carrying  out  in  more  daring 
freedom  the  debased  sculptor’s  choice  of  the  hair  instead  of  the 
countenance.  But  so  far  as  it  can  be  rendered  consistent 
with  the  inherent  character,  the  picturesque  or  extraneous 
sublimity  of  architecture  has  just  this  of  nobler  function  in  it 
than  that  of  any  other  object  whatsoever,  that  it  is  an  expo- 
nent of  age,  of  that  in  which,  as  has  been  said,  the  greatest 
glory  of  a building  consists  ; and,  therefore,  the  external 
signs  of  this  glory,  having  power  and  purpose  greater  than 
any  belonging  to  their  mere  sensible  beauty,  may  be  consid- 
ered as  taking  rank  among  pure  and  essential  characters  ; so 
essential  to  my  mind,  that  I think  a building  cannot  be  con- 
sidered as  in  its  prime  until  four  or  five  centuries  have  passed 
over  it ; and  that  the  entire  choice  and  arrangement  of  its 
details  should  have  reference  to  their  appearance  after  that 
period,  so  that  none  should  be  admitted  which  would  suffer 
material  injury  either  by  the  weather-staining,  or  the  me- 
chanical degradation  which  the  lapse  of  such  a period  would 
necessitate. 

XVII.  It  is  not  my  purpose  to  enter  into  any  of  the  ques- 
tions which  the  application  of  this  principle  involves.  They 
are  of  too  great  interest  and  complexity  to  be  even  touched 
upon  within  my  present  limits,  but  this  is  broadly  to  be  no- 
ticed, that  those  styles  of  architecture  which  are  picturesque 
in  the  sense  above  explained  with  respect  to  sculpture,  that 
is  to  say,  whose  decoration  depends  on  the  arrangement  of 


184 


THE  LAMP  OF  MEMORY. 


points  of  shade  rather  than  on  purity  of  outline,  do  not  suffer, 
but  commonly  gain  in  richness  of  effect  when  their  details 
are  partly  worn  away  ; hence  such  styles,  pre-eminently  that 
of  French  Gothic,  should  always  be  adopted  when  the  mate- 
rials to  be  employed  are  liable  to  degradation,  as  brick,  sand- 
stone, or  soft  limestone  ; and  styles  in  any  degree  dependent 
on  purity  of  line,  as  the  Italian  Gothic,  must  be  practised  al- 
together in  hard  and  undecomposing  materials,  granite  ser- 
pentine, or  crystalline  marbles.  There  can  be  no  doubt  that 
the  nature  of  the  accessible  materials  influenced  the  forma- 
tion of  both  styles  ; and  it  should  still  more  authoritatively 
determine  our  choice  of  either. 

XVIII.  It  does  not  belong  to  my  present  plan  to  consider 
at  length  the  second  head  of  duty  of  which  I have  above 
spoken  ; the  preservation  of  the  architecture  we  possess  : but 
,a  few  words  may  be  forgiven,  as  especially  necessary  in  mod- 
ern times.  Neither  by  the  public,  nor  by  those  who  have  the 
care  of  public  monuments,  is  the  true  meaning  of  the  word 
restoration  understood.  It  means  the  most  total  destruction 
which  a building  can  suffer  : a destruction  out  of  which  no 
remnants  can  be  gathered;  a destruction  accompanied  with 
false  description  of  the  thing  destroyed.  Do  not  let  us  deceive 
ourselves  in  this  important  matter  ; it  is  impossible,  as  impos- 
sible as  to  raise  the  dead,  to  restore  anything  that  has  ever 
been  great  or  beautiful  in  architecture.  That  which  I have 
above  insisted  upon  as  the  life  of  the  whole,  that  spirit  which 
is  given  only  by  the  hand  and  eye  of  the  workman,  never  can 
be  recalled.  Another  spirit  may  be  given  by  another  time, 
and  it  is  then  a new  building  ; but  the  spirit  of  the  dead 
workman  cannot  be  summoned  up,  and  commanded  to  direct 
other  hands,  anid  other  thoughts.  And  as  for  direct  and  simple 
copying,  it  is  palpably  impossible.  What  copying  can  there 
be  of  surfaces  that  have  been  worn  half  an  inch  down  ? The 
whole  finish  of  the  work  was  in  the  half  inch  that  is  gone  ; if 
you  attempt  to  restore  that  finish,  you  do  it  coniecturally  ; if 
you  copy  what  is  left,  granting  fidelity  to  be  possible  (and 
what  care,  or  watchfulness,  or  cost  can  secure  it  ?),  how  is  the 
new  work  better  than  die  old  ? There  was  yet  in  the  old 


THE  LAMP  OF  MEMORY. 


185 


some  life,  some  mysterious  suggestion  of  what  it  had  been, 
and  of  what  it  had  lost ; some  sweetness  in  the  gentle  lines 
which  rain  and  sun  had  wrought.  There  can  be  none  in  the 
brute  hardness  of  the  new  carving.  Look  at  the  animals  which 
I have  given  in  Plate  14,  as  an  instance  of  living  work,  and 
suppose  the  markings  of  the  scales  and  hair  once  worn  away, 
or  the  wrinkles  of  the  brows,  and  who  shall  ever  restore 
them  ? The  first  step  to  restoration  (I  have  seen  it,  and  that 
again  and  again,  seen  it  on  the  Baptistery  of  Pisa,  seen  it  on 
the  Casa  d’  Oro  at  Venice,  seen  it  on  the  Cathedral  of  Lisieux), 
is  to  dash  the  old  work  to  pieces  ; the  second  is  usually  to 
put  up  the  cheapest  and  basest  imitation  which  can  escape  de- 
tection, but  in  all  cases,  however  careful,  and  however  labored, 
an  imitation  still,  a cold  model  of  such  parts  as  can  be  modelled, 
with  conjectural  supplements  ; and  my  experience  has  as  yet 
furnished  me  with  only  one  instance,  that  of  the  Pa'lais  de 
Justice  at  Rouen,  in  which  even  this,  the  utmost  degree  of 
fidelity  which  is  possible,  has  been  attained  or  even  attempted. 

XIX.  Do  not  let  us  talk  then  of  restoration.  The  thing  is 
a Lie  from  beginning  to  end.  You  may  make  a model  of  a 
building  as  you  may  of  a corpse,  and  your  model  may  have 
the  shell  of  the  old  walls  within  it  as  your  cast  might  have  the 
skeleton,  with  what  advantage  I neither  see  nor  care  ; but  the 
old  building  is  destroyed,  and  that  more  totally  and  mercilessly 
than  if  it  had  sunk  into  a heap  of  dust,  or  melted  into  a mass 
of  clay  : more  has  been  gleaned  out  of  desolated  Nineveh  than 
ever  will  be  out  of  re-built  Milan.  But,  it  is  said,  there  may 
come  a necessity  for  restoration  ! Granted.  Look  the  neces- 
sity full  in  the  face,  and  understand  it  on  its  own  terms.  It  is 
a necessity  for  destruction.  Accept  it  as  such,  pull  the  build- 
ing down,  throw  its  stones  into  neglected  corners,  make  ballast 
of  them,  or  mortar,  if  you  will ; but  do  it  honestly,  and  do  not 
set  up  a Lie  in  their  place.  And  look  that  necessity  in  the  face 
before  it  comes,  and  you  may  prevent  it.  The  principle  of 
modern  times  (a  principle  which  I believe,  at  least  in  France, 
to  be  systematically  acted  on  by  the  masons,  in  order  to  find 
themselves  work,  as  the  abbey  of  St.  Ouen  was  pulled  down  by 
the  magistrates  of  the  town  by  way  of  giving  work  to  some 


1S6 


TEE  LAMP  OF  MEMORY. 


vagrants,)  is  to  neglect  buildings  first,  and  restore  them  after* 
wards.  Take  proper  care  of  your  monuments,  and  you  will 
not  need  to  restore  them.  A few  sheets  of  lead  put  in  time 
upon  the  roof,  a few  dead  leaves  and  sticks  swept  in  time  out 
of  a water- course,  will  save  both  roof  and  walls  from  ruin. 
Watch  an  old  building  with  an  anxious  care  ; guard  it  as  best 
you  may,  and  at  any  cost  from  every  influence  of  dilapidation. 
Count  its  stones  as  you  would  jewels  of  a crown  ; set  watches 
about  it  as  if  at  the  gates  of  a besieged  city  ; bind  it  together 
with  iron  where  it  loosens  ; stay  it  with  timber  where  it  de- 
clines ; do  not  care  about  the  unsightliness  of  the  aid  ; better 
a crutch  than  a lost  limb  ; and  do  this  tenderly,  and  reverently, 
and  continually,  and  many  a generation  will  still  be  born  and 
pass  away  beneath  its  shadow.  Its  evil  day  must  come  at  last ; 
but  let  it  come  declaredly  and  openly,  and  let  no  dishonoring 
and  false  substitute  deprive  it  of  the  funeral  offices  of  memory. 

XX.  Of  more  wanton  or  ignorant  ravage  it  is  vain  to  speak ; 
my  words  will  not  reach  those  who  commit  them,  and  yet,  be 
it  heard  or  not,  I must  not  leave  the  truth  unstated,  that  it  is 
again  no  question  of  expediency  or  feeling  whether  we  shall 
preserve  the  buildings  of  past  times  or  not.  We  have  no  right 
whatever  to  touch  them.  They  are  not  ours.  They  belong 
partly  to  those  who  built  them,  and  partly  to  all  the  genera- 
tions of  mankind  who  are  to  follow  us.  The  dead  have  still 
their  right  in  them  : that  which  they  labored  for,  the  praise  of 
achievement  or  the  expression  of  religious  feeling,  or  whatso- 
ever else  it  might  be  which  in  those  buildings  they  intended  to 
be  permanent,  we  have  no  right  to  obliterate.  What  we  have 
ourselves  built,  we  are  at  liberty  to  throw  down ; but  what 
other  men  gave  their  strength,  and  wealth,  and  life  to  accom- 
plish, their  right  over  does  not  pass  aw7ay  with  their  death ; 
still  less  is  the  right  to  the  use  of  what  they  have  left  vested 
in  us  only.  It  belongs  to  all  their  successors.  It  may  here- 
after be  a subject  of  sorrow,  or  a cause  of  injury,  to  mill- 
ions, that  we  have  consulted  our  present  convenience  by  cast- 
ing down  such  buildings  as  wre  choose  to  dispense  with.  That 
sorrow,  that  loss  we  have  no  right  to  inflict.  Did  the  cathe- 
dral of  Avranches  belong  to  the  mob  who  destroyed  it,  any 


THE  LAMP  OF  MEMORY. 


187 


more  than  it  did  to  us,  who  walk  in  sorrow  to  and  fro  over  its 
foundation  ? Neither  does  any  building  whatever  belong  to 
those  mobs  who  do  violence  to  it.  For  a mob  it  is,  and  must 
be  always ; it  matters  not  whether  enraged,  or  in  deliberate 
folly  ; whether  countless,  or  sitting  in  committees  ; the  people 
who  destroy  anything  causelessly  are  a mob,  and  Architecture 
is  always  destroyed  causelessly.  A fair  building  is  necessarily 
worth  the  ground  it  stands  upon,  and  will  be  so  until  central 
Africa  and  America  shall  have  become  as  populous  as  Middle- 
sex ; nor  is  any  cause  whatever  valid  as  a ground  for  its  de- 
struction. If  ever  valid,  certainly  not  now  when  the  place 
both  of  the  past  and  future  is  too  much  usurped  in  our  minds 
by  the  restless  and  discontented  present.  The  very  quietness 
of  nature  is  gradually  withdrawn  from  us  ; thousands  who 
once  in  their  necessarily  prolonged  travel  were  subjected  to 
an  influence,  from  the  silent  sky  and  slumbering  fields,  more 
effectual  than  known  or  confessed,  now  bear  with  them  even 
there  the  ceaseless  fever  of  their  life  ; and  along  the  iron  veins 
that  traverse  the  frame  of  our  country,  beat  and  flow  the  fiery 
pulses  of  its  exertions,  hotter  and  faster  every  hour.  All 
vitality  is  concentrated  through  those  throbbing  arteries  into 
the  central  cities  ; the  country  is  passed  over  like  a green  sea 
by  narrow  bridges,  and  we  are  thrown  back  in  continually 
closer  crowds  upon  the  city  gates.  The  only  influence  which 
can  in  any  wise  there  take  the  place  of  that  of  the  woods  and 
fields,  is  the  power  of  ancient  Architecture.  Do  not  part  with 
it  for  the  sake  of  the  formal  square,  or  of  the  fenced  and 
planted  walk,  nor  of  the  goodly  street  nor  opened  quay.  The 
pride  of  a city  is  not  in  these.  Leave  them  to  the  crowd  ; 
but  remember  that  there  will  surely  be  some  within  the  cir- 
cuit of  the  disquieted  walls  who  wrould  ask  for  some  other 
spots  than  these  wherein  to  walk  ; for  some  other  forms  to 
meet  their  sight  familiarly  : like  him  who  sat  so  often  where 
the  sun  struck  from  the  west,  to  watch  the  lines  of  the  dome 
of  Florence  drawn  on  the  deep  sky,  or  like  those,  his  Hosts, 
who  could  bear  daily  to  behold,  from  their  palace  chambers, 
the  places  where  their  fathers  lay  at  rest,  at  the  meeting  of 
the  dark  streets  of  Verona. 


138 


THE  LAMP  OF  OBEDIENCE. 


CHAPTER  VH. 

THE  LAMP  OF  OBEDIENCE. 

I.  It  has  been  my  endeavor  to  show  in  the  preceding  pagej 
how  every  form  of  noble  architecture  is  in  some  sort  the 
embodiment  of  the  Polity,  Life,  History,  and  Religious  Faith 
of  nations.  Once  or  twice  in  doing  this,  I have  named  a 
principle  to  which  I wrould  now  assign  a definite  place  among 
those  which  direct  that  embodiment ; the  last  place,  not  only 
as  that  to  which  its  own  humility  would  incline,  but  rather  as 
belonging  to  it  in  the  aspect  of  the  crowning  grace  of  all  the 
rest ; that  principle,  I mean,  to  which  Polity  owes  its  stabil- 
ity, Life  its  happiness,  Faith  its  acceptance,  Creation  its  con- 
tinuance,— Obedience. 

Nor  is  it  the  least  among  the  sources  of  more  serious  satis- 
faction which  I have  found  in  the  pursuit  of  a subject  that  at 
first  appeared  to  bear  but  slightly  on  the  grave  interests  of 
mankind,  that  the  conditions  of  material  perfection  which  it 
leads  me  in  conclusion  to  consider,  furnish  a strange  proof 
liow  false  is  the  conception,  how  frantic  the  pursuit,  of  that 
treacherous  phantom  which  men  call  Liberty ; most  treach- 
erous, indeed,  of  all  phantoms  ; for  the  feeblest  ray  of  reason 
might  surely  show  us,  that  not  only  its  attainment,  but  its 
being,  was  impossible.  There  is  no  such  thing  in  the  uni- 
verse. There  can  never  be.  The  stars  have  it  not ; the  earth 
has  it  not ; the  sea  has  it  not ; and  we  men  have  the  mockery 
and  semblance  of  it  only  for  our  heaviest  punishment. 

In  one  of  the  noblest  poems17  for  its  imagery  and  its  musio 
belonging  to  the  recent  school  of  our  literature,  the  writer 
lias  sought  in  the  aspect  of  inanimate  nature  the  expression  of 
that  Liberty  which,  having  once  loved,  he  had  seen  among 
men  in  its  true  dyes  of  darkness.  But  with  what  strange 
fallacy  of  interpretation  ! since  in  one  noble  line  of  his  invo- 
cation he  has  contradicted  the  assumptions  of  the  rest,  and  ac* 
knowledged  the  presence  of  a subjection,  surely  not  less  se« 
vere  because  eternal?  How  could  he  otherwise?  since  it 


THE  LAMP  OF  OBEDIENCE. 


189 


there  be  any  one  principle  more  widely  than  another  con- 
fessed by  every  utterance,  or  more  sternly  than  another  im- 
printed on  every  atom,  of  the  visible  creation,  that  principle  is 
not  Liberty,  but  Law. 

II.  The  enthusiast  would  reply  that  by  Liberty  he  meant 
the  Law  of  Liberty.  Then  why  use  the  single  and  misunder- 
stood word  ? If  by  liberty  you  mean  chastisement  of  the  pas- 
sions, discipline  of  the  intellect,  subjection  of  the  will ; if  you 
mean  the  fear  of  inflicting,  the  shame  of  committing  a wrong  ; 
if  you  mean  respect  for  all  who  are  in  authority,  and  consid- 
eration for  all  who  are  in  dependence  ; veneration  for  the 
good,  mercy  to  the  evil,  sympathy  with  the  weak  ; if  you  mean 
watchfulness  over  all  thoughts,  temperance  in  all  pleasures, 
and  perseverance  in  all  toils  ; if  you  mean,  in  a word,  that 
Service  which  is  defined  in  the  liturgy  of  the  English  church 
to  be  perfect  Freedom,  why  do  you  name  this  by  the  same 
word  by  which  the  luxurious  mean  license,  and  the  reckless 
mean  change  ; by  which  the  rogue  means  rapine,  and  the  fool 
equality,  by  which  the  proud  mean  anarchy,  and  the  malignant 
mean  violence  ? Call  it  by  any  name  rather  than  this,  but  its 
best  and  truest  is,  Obedience.  Obedience  is,  indeed,  founded 
on  a kind  of  freedom,  else  its  would  become  mere  subjugation, 
but  that  freedom  is  only  granted  that  obedience  may  be  more 
perfect ; and  thus,  while  a measure  of  license  is  necessary  to 
exhibit  the  individual  energies  of  things,  the  fairness  and 
pleasantness  and  perfection  of  them  all  consist  in  their  Re- 
straint. Compare  a river  that  has  burst  its  banks  with  one 
that  is  bound  by  them,  and  the  clouds  that  are  scattered  over 
the  face  of  the  whole  heaven  with  those  that  are  marshalled 
into  ranks  and  orders  by  its  winds.  So  that  though  restraint, 
utter  and  unrelaxing,  can  never  be  comely,  this  is  not  because 
It  is  in  itself  an  evil,  but  only  because,  when  too  great,  it  over- 
powers the  nature  of  the  thing  restrained,  and  so  counteracts 
the  other  laws  of  which  that  nature  is  itself  composed.  And 
the  balance  wherein  consists  the  fairness  of  creation  is  be- 
tween  the  laws  of  life  and  being  in  the  things  governed  and 
the  laws  of  general  sway  to  which  they  are  subjected  ; and  the 
suspension  or  infringement  of  either  kind  of  law,  or,  literally* 


190 


THE  LAMP  OF  OBEDIENCE. 


disorder,  is  equivalent  to,  and  synonymous  with,  disease; 
■while  the  increase  of  both  honor  and  beauty  is  habitually  on 
the  side  of  restraint  (or  the  action  of  superior  law)  rather  than 
of  character  (or  the  action  of  inherent  law).  The  noblest 
wrord  in  the  catalogue  of  social  virtue  is  “ Loyalty,”  and  the 
sweetest  which  men  have  learned  in  the  pastures  of  the  wilder- 
ness is  “ Fold.” 

III.  Nor  is  this  all ; but  we  may  observe,  that  exactly  in 
proportion  to  the  majesty  of  things  in  the  scale  of  being,  is 
the  completeness  of  their  obedience  to  the  laws  that  are  set 
over  them.  Gravitation  is  less  quietly,  less  instantly  obeyed 
by  a grain  of  dust  than  it  is  by  the  sun  and  moon  ; and  the 
ocean  falls  and  flows  under  influences  -which  the  lake  and 
river  do  not  recognize.  So  also  in  estimating  the  dignity  of 
any  action  or  occupation  of  men,  there  is  perhaps  no  better 
test  than  the  question  “are  its  laws  strait?”  For  their  se- 
verity will  probably  be  commensurate  with  the  greatness  of 
the  numbers  whose  labor  it  concentrates  or  whose  interest  it 
concerns. 

This  severity  must  be  singular,  therefore,  in  the  case  of 
that  art,  above  all  others,  whose  productions  are  the  most  vast 
and  the  most  common  ; which  requires  for  its  practice  the  co- 
operation of  bodies  of  men,  and  for  its  perfection  the  per- 
severance of  successive  generations.  And  taking  into  account 
also  what  we  have  before  so  often  observed  of  Architecture, 
her  continual  influence  over  the  emotions  of  daily  life,  and  her 
realism,  as  opposed  to  the  two  sister  arts  which  are  in  com- 
parison but  the  picturing  of  stories  and  of  dreams,  we  might 
beforehand  expect  that  we  should  find  her  healthy  state  and 
action  dependent  on  far  more  severe  laws  than  theirs  ; that  the 
license  which  they  extend  to  the  workings  of  individual  mind 
would  be  withdrawn  by  her ; and  that,  in  assertion  of  the  re- 
lations which  she  holds  with  all  that  is  universally  important 
to  man,  she  would  set  forth,  by  her  own  majestic  subjection, 
some  likeness  of  that  on  which  man’s  social  happiness  and 
power  depend.  We  might,  therefore,  without  the  light  of 
experience,  conclude,  that  Architecture  never  could  flourish 
except  when  it  was  subjected  to  a national  law  as  strict  and 


THE  LAMP  OF  OBEDIENCE. 


191 


as  minutely  authoritative  as  the  laws  which  regulate  religion, 
policy,  and  social  relations  ; nay,  even  more  authoritative  than 
these,  because  both  capable  of  more  enforcement,  as  over 
more  passive  matter  ; and  needing  more  enforcement,  as  the 
purest  type  not  of  one  law  nor  of  another,  but  of  the  common 
authority  of  all.  But  in  this  matter  experience  speaks  more 
loudly  than  reason.  If  there  be  any  one  condition  which,  in 
watching  the  progress  of  architecture,  we  see  distinct  and 
general ; if,  amidst  the  counter  evidence  of  success  attending 
opposite  accidents  of  character  and  circumstance,  any  one 
conclusion  may  be  constantly  and  indisputably  drawn,  it  is 
this  ; that  the  architecture  of  a nation  is  great  only  when  it  is 
a3  universal  and  as  established  as  its  language  ; and  when  pro- 
vincial differences  of  style  are  nothing  more  than  so  many  dia- 
lects. Other  necessities  are  matters  of  doubt : nations  have 
been  alike  successful  in  their  architecture  in  times  of  poverty 
and  of  wealth  ; in  times  of  war  and  of  peace  ; in  times  of  bar- 
barism and  of  refinement ; under  governments  the  most  lib- 
eral or  the  most  arbitrary  ; but  this  one  condition  has  been 
constant,  this  one  requirement  clear  in  all  places  and  at  all 
times,  that  the  work  shall  be  that  of  a school,  that  no  indi- 
vidual caprice  shall  dispense  with,  or  materially  vary,  accepted 
types  and  customary  decorations  ; and  that  from  the  cottage 
to  the  palace,  and  from  the  chapel  to  the  basilica,  and  from 
the  garden  fence  to  the  fortress  wall,  every  member  and  feat- 
ure of  the  architecture  of  the  nation  shall  be  as  commonly 
current,  as  frankly  accepted,  as  its  language  or  its  coin. 

IV.  A da}7  never  passes  without  our  hearing  our  English 
architects  called  upon  to  be  original,  and  to  invent  a new  style : 
about  as  sensible  and  necessary  an  exhortation  as  to  ask  of  a 
man  who  has  never  had  rags  enough  on  his  back  to  keep  out 
cold,  to  invent  a new  mode  of  cutting  a coat.  Give  him  a 
whole  coat  first,  and  let  him  concern  himself  about  the  fashion 
of  it  afterwards.  We  want  no  new  style  of  architecture.  Who 
wants  a new  style  of  painting  or  sculpture  ? But  we  want 
some  style.  It  is  of  marvellously  little  importance,  if  we  have 
a code  of  laws  and  they  be  good  laws,  whether  they  be  new  or 
old,  foreign  or  native,  Homan  or  Saxon,  or  Norman  or  Eng- 


192 


THE  LAMP  OF  OBEDIENCE. 


lish  laws.  But  it  is  of  considerable  importance  that  we  should 
have  a code  of  laws  of  one  kind  or  another,  and  that  code  ac- 
cepted and  enforced  from  one  side  of  the  island  to  another, 
and  not  one  law  made  ground  of  judgment  at  York  and  an- 
other in  Exeter.  And  in  like  manner  it  does  not  matter  one 
marble  splinter  whether  we  have  an  old  or  new  architecture, 
but  it  matters  everything  whether  we  have  an  architecture 
truly  so  called  or  not ; that  is,  whether  an  architecture  whose 
laws  might  be  taught  at  our  schools  from  Cornwall  to  Nor- 
thumberland, as  we  teach  English  spelling  and  English  gram- 
mar, or  an  architecture  which  is  to  be  invented  fresh  every 
time  we  build  a workhouse  or  a parish  school.  There  seems 
to  me  to  be  a wonderful  misunderstanding  among  the  major- 
ity of  architects  at  the  present  day  as  to  the  very  nature  and 
meaning  of  Originality,  and  of  all  wherein  it  consists.  Origi- 
nality in  expression  does  not  depend  on  invention  of  new  words ; 
nor  originality  in  poetry  on  invention  of  new  measures  ; nor, 
in  painting,  on  invention  of  new  colors,  or  new  modes  of  using 
them.  The  chords  of  music,  the  harmonies  of  color,  the  gen- 
eral principles  of  the  arrangement  of  sculptural  masses,  have 
been  determined  long  ago,  and,  in  all  probability,  cannot  be 
added  to  any  more  than  they  can  be  altered.  Granting  that 
they  may  be,  such  additions  or  alterations  are  much  more  the 
work  of  time  and  of  multitudes  than  of  individual  inventors. 
We  may  have  one  Van  Eyck,  who  will  be  known  as  the  in- 
troducer of  a new  style  once  in  ten  centuries,  but  he  himself 
will  trace  his  invention  to  some  accidental  bye-play  or  pursuit ; 
and  the  use  of  that  invention  will  depend  altogether  on  the 
popular  necessities  or  instincts  of  the  period.  Originality  de- 
pends on  nothing  of  the  kind.  A man  who  has  the  gift,  will 
take  up  any  style  that  is  going,  the  style  of  his  day,  and  will 
work  in  that,  and  be  great  in  that,  and  make  everything  that 
he  does  in  it  look  as  fresh  as  if  every  thought  of  it  had  just 
come  down  from  heaven.  I do  not  say  that  he  will  not  take 
liberties  with  his  materials,  or  with  his  rules  : I do  not  say 
that  strange  changes  will  not  sometimes  be  wrought  by  his 
efforts,  or  his  fancies,  in  both.  But  those  changes  will  be  in- 
structive, natural,  facile,  though  sometimes  marvellous  ; they 


THE  LAMP  OF  OBEDIENCE. 


193 


will  never  be  sought  after  as  things  necessary  to  his  dignity 
or  to  his  independence ; and  those  liberties  will  be  like  the 
liberties  that  a great  speaker  takes  with  the  language,  not  a 
defiance  of  its  rules  for  the  sake  of  singularity ; but  inevitable, 
uncalculated,  and  brilliant  consequences  of  an  effort  to  express 
what  the  language,  without  such  infraction,  could  not.  There 
may  be  times  when,  as  I have  above  described,  the  life  of  an 
art  is  manifested  in  its  changes,  and  in  its  refusal  of  ancient 
limitations  : so  there  are  in  the  life  of  an  insect ; and  there  is 
great  interest  in  the  state  of  both  the  art  and  the  insect  at 
those  periods  when,  by  their  natural  progress  and  constitu- 
tional power,  such  changes  are  about  to  be  wrought.  But  as 
that  would  be  both  an  uncomfortable  and  foolish  caterpillar 
which,  instead  of  being  contented  with  a caterpillar’s  life  and 
feeding  on  caterpillar’s  food,  was  always  striving  to  turn  itself 
into  a chrysalis  ; and  as  that  would  be  an  unhappy  chrysalis 
which  should  lie  awake  at  night  and  roll  restlessly  in  its 
cocoon,  in  efforts  to  turn  itself  prematurely  into  a moth  ; so 
will  that  art  be  unhappy  and  unprospcrous  which,  instead  of 
supporting  itself  on  the  food,  and  contenting  itself  wTith  the 
customs  which  have  been  enough  for  the  support  and  guid- 
ance of  other  arts  before  it  and  like  it,  is  struggling  and  fret- 
ting under  the  natural  limitations  of  its  existence,  and  striving 
to  become  something  other  than  it  is.  And  though  it  is  the 
nobility  of  the  highest  creatures  to  look  forward  to,  and  partly 
to  understand  the  changes  which  are  appointed  for  them,  pre- 
paring for  them  beforehand  ; and  if,  as  is  usual  with  appointed 
changes,  they  be  into  a higher  state,  even  desiring  them,  and 
rejoicing  in  the  hope  of  them,  yet  it  is  the  strength  of  every 
creature,  be  it  changeful  or  not,  to  rest  for  the  time  being, 
contented  with  the  conditions  of  its  existence,  and  striving 
only  to  bring  about  the  changes  wdiich  it  desires,  by  fulfilling 
to  the  uttermost  the  duties  for  which  its  present  state  is 
appointed  and  continued. 

Y.  Neither  originality,  therefore,  nor  change,  good  though 
both  may  be,  and  this  is  commonly  a most  merciful  and  en- 
thusiastic supposition  with  respect  to  either,  are  ever  to  be 
sought  in  themselves,  or  can  ever  be  healthily  obtained  by  any 


194 


THE  LAME  OF  OBEDIENCE. 


Struggle  or  rebellion  against  common  laws.  We  want  neither 
the  one  nor  the  other.  The  forms  of  architecture  already 
known  are  good  enough  for  us,  and  for  far  better  than  any  of 
us : and  it  will  be  time  enough  to  think  of  changing  them  for 
better  when  we  can  use  them  as  they  are.  But  there  are 
some  things  which  we  not  only  want,  but  cannot  do  without ; 
and  which  all  the  struggling  and  raving  in  the  world,  nay 
more,  which  all  the  real  talent  and  resolution  in  England,  will 
never  enable  us  to  do  without : and  these  are  Obedience, 
Unity,  Fellowship,  and  Order.  And  all  our  schools  of  design, 
and  committees  of  tastes  ; all  our  academies  and  lectures,  and 
journalisms,  and  essays  ; all  the  sacrifices  which  we  are  begin- 
ning to  make,  all  the  truth  which  there  is  in  our  English  nat- 
ure, all  the  power  of  our  English  will,  and  the  life  of  our 
English  intellect,  will  in  this  matter  be  as  useless  as  efforts 
and  emotions  in  a dream,  unless  we  are  contented  to  submit 
architecture  and  all  art,  like  other  things,  to  English  law. 

VI.  I say  architecture  and  all  art ; for  I believe  architecture 
must  be  the  beginning  of  arts,  and  that  the  others  must  fol- 
low her  in  their  time  and  order ; and  I think  the  prosperity 
of  our  schools  of  painting  and  sculpture,  in  which  no  one  will 
deny  the  life,  though  many  the  health,  depends  upon  that  of 
our  architecture.  I think  that  all  will  languish  until  that 
takes  the  lead,  and  (this  I do  not  think,  but  I proclaim,  as 
confidently  as  I would  assert  the  necessity,  for  the  safety  of 
society,  of  an  understood  and  strongly  administered  legal  gov- 
ernment) our  architecture  ivill  languish,  and  that  in  the  very 
dust,  until  the  first  principle  of  common  sense  be  manfully 
obeyed,  and  an  universal  system  of  form  and  workmanship  be 
everywhere  adopted  and  enforced.  It  may  be  said  that  this 
is  impossible.  It  may  be  so — I fear  it  is  so  : I have  nothing 
to  do  with  the  possibility  or  impossibility  of  it ; I simply 
know  and  assert  the  necessity  of  it.  If  it  be  impossible,  Eng- 
lish art  is  impossible.  Give  it  up  at  once.  You  are  wasting 
time,  and  money,  and  energy  upon  it,  and  though  jrou  ex- 
haust centuries  and  treasuries,  and  break  hearts  for  it,  you 
will  never  raise  it  above  the  merest  dilettanteism.  Think  not 
of  it.  It  is  a dangerous  vanity,  a mere  gulph  in  which  genius 


THE  LAMP  OF  OBEDIENCE. 


195 


after  genius  will  be  swallowed  up,  and  it  will  not  close.  And 
so  it  will  continue  to  be,  unless  the  one  bold  and  broad  step  be 
taken  at  the  beginning.  We  shall  not  manufacture  art  out  of 
pottery  and  printed  stuffs  ; we  shall  not  reason  out  art  by  our 
philosophy  ; we  shall  not  stumble  upon  art  by  our  experi- 
ments, not  create  it  by  our  fancies : I do  not  say  that  we  can 
even  build  it  out  of  brick  and  stone  ; but  there  is  a chance 
for  us  in  these,  and  there  is  none  else  ; and  that  chance  rests 
on  the  bare  possibility  of  obtaining  the  consent,  both  of 
architects  and  of  the  public,  to  choose  a style,  and  to  use  it 
universally. 

VII.  How  surely  its  principles  ought  at  first  to  be  limited, 
we  may  easily  determine  by  the  consideration  of  the  neces- 
sary modes  of  teaching  any  other  branch  of  general  knowl- 
edge. W7hen  we  begin  to  teach  children  writing,  we  force 
them  to  absolute  copyism,  and  require  absolute  accuracy  in 
the  formation  of  the  letters  ; as  they  obtain  command  of  the 
received  modes  of  literal  expression,  we  cannot  prevent  their 
falling  into  such  variations  as  are  consistent  with  their  feel- 
ing, their  circumstances,  or  their  characters.  So,  when  a boy 
is  first  taught  to  write  Latin,  an  authority  is  required  of  him 
for  every  expression  he  uses  ; as  he  becomes  master  of  the 
language  he  may  take  a license,  and  feel  his  right  to  do  so 
without  any  authority,  and  yet  write  better  Latin  than  when 
he  borrowed  every  separate  expression.  In  the  same  way  our 
architects  would  have  to  be  taught  to  write  the  accepted  style. 
We  must  first  determine  what  buildings  are  to  be  considered 
Augustan  in  their  authority  ; their  modes  of  construction  and 
laws  of  proportion  are  to  be  studied  with  the  most  penetrat-. 
ing  care ; then  the  different  forms  and  uses  of  their  decora- 
tions are  to  be  classed  and  catalogued,  as  a German  gramma- 
rian classes  the  powers  of  prepositions ; and  under  this 
absolute,  irrefragable  authority,  we  are  to  begin  to  work  ; 
admitting  not  so  much  as  an  alteration  in  the  depth  of  a 
cavetto,  or  the  breadth  of  a fillet.  Then,  when  our  sight  is 
once  accustomed  to  the  grammatical  forms  and  arrangements, 
and  our  thoughts  familiar  with  the  expression  of  them  all ; 
when  we  can  speak  this  dead  language  naturally*  and  apply  it 


196 


THE  LAMP  OF  OBEDIENCE. 


to  whatever  ideas  we  have  to  render,  that  is  to  say,  to  every 
practical  purpose  of  life  ; then,  and  not  till  then,  a license 
might  be  permitted  ; and  individual  authority  allowed  to 
change  or  to  add  to  the  received  forms,  always  within  certain 
limits  ; the  decorations,  especially,  might  be  made  subjects  of 
variable  fancy,  and  enriched  with  ideas  either  original  or 
taken  from  other  schools.  And  thus  in  process  of  time  and 
by  a great  national  movement,  it  might  come  to  pass,  that  a 
new  style  should  arise,  as  language  itself  changes ; we  might 
perhaps  come  to  speak  Italian  instead  of  Latin,  or  to  speak 
modern  instead  of  old  English  ; but  this  would  be  a mattei 
of  entire  indifference,  and  a matter,  besides,  which  no  deter- 
mination or  desire  could  either  hasten  or  prevent.  That 
alone  which  it  is  in  our  power  to  obtain,  and  which  it  is  our 
duty  to  desire,  is  an  unanimous  style  of  some  kind,  and  such 
comprehension  and  practice  of  it  as  would  enable  us  to  adapt 
its  features  to  the  peculiar  character  of  every  several  building, 
large  or  small,  domestic,  civil,  or  ecclesiastical,  I have  said 
that  it  was  immaterial  what  style  wras  adopted,  so  far  as  re- 
gards the  room  for  originality  which  its  developement  would 
admit : it  is  not  so,  however,  when  we  take  into  consideration 
the  far  more  important  questions  of  the  facility  of  adaptation 
to  general  purposes,  and  of  the  sympathy  with  which  this  or  that 
style  would  be  popularly  regarded.  The  choice  of  Classical 
or  Gothic,  again  using  the  latter  term  in  its  broadest  sense, 
may  be  questionable  when  it  regards  some  single  and  consid- 
erable public  building  ; but  I cannot  conceive  it  questionable, 
for  an  instant,  when  it  regards  modern  uses  in  general : I 
cannot  conceive  any  architect  insane  enough  to  project  the 
vulgarization  of  Greek  architecture.  Neither  can  it  be  ration- 
ally questionable  whether  we  should  adopt  early  or  late,  origi- 
nal or  derivative  Gothic  : if  the  latter  were  chosen,  it  must  be 
either  some  impotent  and  ugly  degradation,  like  our  own 
Tudor,  or  else  a style  whose  grammatical  lav/s  it  would  be 
nearly  impossible  to  limit  or  arrange,  like  the  French  Flam- 
boyant. We  are  equally  precluded  from  adopting  styles  es- 
sentially infantine  or  barbarous,  however  Herculean  their  in- 
fancy, or  majestic  their  outlawry,  such  as  our  own  Norman, 


THE  LAMP  OF  OBEDIENCE. 


197 


or  the  Lombard  Romanesque.  The  choice  would  lie  I think 
between  four  styles : — 1.  The  Pisan  Komanesque  ; 2.  The 
early  Gothic  of  the  Western  Italian  Republics,  advanced  as 
far  and  as  fast  as  our  art  would  enable  us  to  the  Gothic  of 
Giotto  ; 3.  The  Venetian  Gothic  in  its  purest  developement ; 
4.  The  English  earliest  decorated.  The  most  natural,  per- 
haps the  safest  choice,  would  be  of  the  last,  well  fenced  from 
chance  of  again  stiffening  into  the  perpendicular ; and  per- 
haps enriched  by  some  mingling  of  decorative  elements  from 
the  exquisite  decorated  Gothic  of  Prance,  of  which,  in  such 
cases,  it  would  be  needful  to  accept  some  well  known  ex- 
amples, as  the  North  door  of  Rouen  and  the  church  of  St. 
Urbain  at  Troyes,  for  final  and  limiting  authorities  on  the 
side  of  decoration. 

VIII.  It  is  almost  impossible  for  us  to  conceive,  in  our  pres- 
ent state  of  doubt  and  ignorance,  the  sudden  dawn  of  intel- 
ligence and  fancy,  the  rapidly  increasing  sense  of  power  and 
facility,  and,  in  its  proper  sense,  of  Freedom,  which  such  whole- 
some restraint  would  instantly  cause  throughout  the  whole 
circle  of  the  arts.  Freed  from  the  agitation  and  embarrass- 
ment of  that  liberty  of  choice  which  is  the  cause  of  half  the 
discomforts  of  the  world ; freed  from  the  accompanying  ne- 
cessity of  studying  all  past,  present,  or  even  possible  styles  ; 
and  enabled,  by  concentration  of  individual,  and  co-operation 
of  multitudinous  energy,  to  penetrate  into  the  uttermost  se- 
crets of  the  adopted  style,  the  architect  would  find  his  whole 
understanding  enlarged,  his  practical  knowledge  certain  and 
ready  to  hand,  and  his  imagination  playful  and  vigorous,  as  a 
child’s  would  be  within  a walled  garden,  who  would  sit  down 
and  shudder  if  he  were  left  free  in  a fenceless  plain.  How 
many  and  how  bright  would  be  the  results  in  every  direction 
of  interest,  not  to  the  arts  merely,  but  to  national  happiness 
and  virtue,  it  would  be  as  difficult  to  preconceive  as  it  would 
seem  extravagant  to  state  : but  the  first,  perhaps  the  least,  of 
them  would  be  an  increased  sense  of  fellowship  among  our- 
selves, a cementing  of  every  patriotic  bond  of  union,  a proud 
and  happy  recognition  of  our  affection  for  and  sympathy  with 
each  other,  and  our  willingness  in  all  things  to  submit  our* 


198 


THE  LAMP  OF  OBEDIENCE. 


selves  to  every  law  that  would  advance  the  interest  of  the  corn* 
munity  ; a barrier,  also,  the  best  conceivable,  to  the  unhappy 
rivalry  of  the  upper  and  middle  classes,  in  houses,  furniture, 
and  establishments ; and  even  a check  to  much  of  what  is 
as  vain  as  it  is  painful  in  the  oppositions  of  religious  parties 
respecting  matters  of  ritual.  These,  I say,  would  be  the  first 
consequences.  Economy  increased  tenfold,  as  it  would  be  by 
the  simplicity  of  practice;  domestic  comforts  uninterfered 
with  by  the  caprice  and  mistakes  of  architects  ignorant  of  the 
capacities  of  the  styles  they  use,  and  all  the  symmetry  and 
sightliness  of  our  harmonized  streets  and  public  buildings, 
are  things  of  slighter  account  in  the  catalogue  of  benefits. 
But  it  would  be  mere  enthusiasm  to  endeavor  to  trace  them 
farther.  I have  suffered  myself  too  long  to  indulge  in  the 
speculative  statement  of  requirements  which  perhaps  we  have 
more  immediate  and  more  serious  work  than  to  supply,  and 
of  feelings  which  it  may  be  only  contingently  in  our  power  to 
recover.  I should  be  unjustly  thought  unaware  of  the  diffi- 
culty of  what  I have  proposed,  or  of  the  unimportance  of  the 
whole  subject  as  compared  with  many  which  are  brought  home 
to  our  interests  and  fixed  upon  our  consideration  by  the  wild 
course  of  the  present  century.  But  of  difficulty  and  of  im- 
portance it  is  for  others  to  judge.  I have  limited  myself  to 
the  simple  statement  of  what,  if  we  desire  to  have  architecture, 
we  must  primarily  endeavor  to  feel  and  do  : but  then  it  may 
not  be  desirable  for  us  to  have  architecture  at  all.  There  are 
many  who  feel  it  to  be  so ; many  who  sacrifice  much  to  that 
end  ; and  I am  sorry  to  see  their  energies  wasted  and  their 
lives  disquieted  in  vain.  I have  stated,  therefore,  the  only 
ways  in  which  that  end  is  attainable,  without  venturing  even 
to  express  an  opinion  as  to  its  real  desirableness.  I have  an 
opinion,  and  the  zeal  with  which  I have  spoken  may  some- 
times have  betrayed  it,  but  I hold  to  it  with  no  confidence.  I 
know'  too  well  the  undue  importance  which  the  study  that 
ever)  man  follows  must  assume  in  his  own  eyes,  to  trust  my 
own  impressions  of  the  dignity  of  that  of  Architecture ; and 
yet  I think  I cannot  be  utterly  mistaken  in  regarding  it  as  at 
least  useful  in  the  sense  of  a National  employment.  I am  coiv 


THE  LAMP  OF  OBEDIENCE. 


199 


firmed  in  this  impression  by  what  I see  passing  among  the 
states  of  Europe  at  this  instant  All  the  horror,  distress,  and 
tumult  which  oppress  the  foreign  nations,  are  traceable, 
among  the  other  secondary  causes  through  which  God  is  work- 
iug  out  His  will  upon  them,  to  the  simple  one  of  their  not 
having  enough  to  do.  I am  not  blind  to  the  distress  among 
their  operatives  ; nor  do  I deny  the  nearer  and  visibly  active 
causes  of  the  movement : the  recklessness  of  villany  in  the 
leaders  of  revolt,  the  absence  of  common  moral  principle  in 
the  upper  classes,  and  of  common  courage  and  honesty  in  the 
heads  of  governments.  But  these  causes  themselves  are  ulti- 
mately traceable  to  a deeper  and  simpler  one  : the  recklessness 
of  the  demagogue,  the  immorality  of  the  middle  class,  and  the 
effeminacy  and  treachery  of  the  noble,  are  traceable  in  all  these 
nations  to  the  commonest  and  most  fruitful  cause  of  calamity 
in  households — idleness.  We  think  too  much  in  our  benev- 
olent efforts,  more  multiplied  and  more  vain  day  by  day,  of 
bettering  men  by  giving  them  advice  and  instruction.  There 
are  few  who  will  take  either  : the  chief  thing  they  need  is  oc- 
cupation. I do  not  mean  work  in  the  sense  of  bread, — I mean 
work  in  the  sense  of  mental  interest  ; for  those  who  either 
are  placed  above  the  necessity  of  labor  for  their  bread,  or  who 
will  not  work  although  they  should.  There  is  a vast  quantity 
of  idle  energy  among  European  nations  at  this  time,  which 
ought  to  go  into  handicrafts  ; there  are  multitudes  of  idle 
semi-gentlemen  who  ought  to  be  shoemakers  and  carpenters  ; 
but  since  they  will  not  be  these  so  long  as  they  can  help  it, 
the  business  of  the  philanthropist  is  to  find  them  some  other 
employment  than  disturbing  governments.  It  is  of  no  use 
to  tell  them  they  are  fools,  and  that  they  will  only  make  them- 
selves  miserable  in  the  end  as  well  as  others : if  they  have 
nothing  else  to  do,  they  will  do  mischief  ; and  the  man  who 
will  not  work,  and  who  has  no  means  of  intellectual  pleasure, 
is  as  sure  to  become  an  instrument  of  evil  as  if  he  had  sold  him- 
self bodily  to  Satan.  I have  myself  seen  enough  of  the  daily 
life  of  the  young  educated  men  of  France  and  Italy,  to  ac- 
count for,  as  it  deserves,  the  deepest  national  suffering  and 
degradation  ; and  though,  for  the  most  part,  our  commerce 


200 


THE  LAMP  OF  OBEDIENCE 


and  our  natural  habits  of  industry  preserve  us  from  a simh 
lar  paralysis,  yet  it  would  be  wise  to  consider  whether  the 
forms  of  employment  which  wre  chiefly  adopt  or  promote,  are 
as  well  calculated  as  they  might  be  to  improve  and  elevate 
us. 

We  have  just  spent,  for  instance,  a hundred  and  fifty  mill- 
ions, with  which  we  have  paid  men  for  digging  ground  from 
one  place  and  depositing  it  in  another.  We  have  formed  a 
large  class  of  men,  the  railway  navvies,  especially  reckless,  un- 
manageable, and  dangerous.  We  have  maintained  besides 
(let  us  state  the  benefits  as  fairly  as  possible)  a number  of  iron 
founders  in  an  unhealthy  and  painful  employment ; we  have 
developed  (this  is  at  least  good)  a very  large  amount  of  me- 
chanical ingenuity  ; and  we  have,  in  fine,  attained  the  powel 
of  going  fast  from  one  place  to  another.  Meantime  we  have 
had  no  mental  interest  or  concern  ourselves  in  the  operations 
we  have  set  on  foot,  but  have  been  left  to  the  usual  vanities 
and  cares  of  our  existence.  Suppose,  on  the  other  hand,  that 
we  had  employed  the  same  sums  in  building  beautiful  houses 
and  churches.  We  should  have  maintained  the  same  number 
of  men,  not  in  driving  wheelbarrows,  but  in  a distinctly  tech- 
nical, if  not  intellectual,  employment,  and  those  who  were 
more  intelligent  among  them  would  have  been  especially 
happy  in  that  employment,  as  having  room  in  it  for  the  de- 
velopement  of  their  fancy,  and  being  directed  by  it  to  that  ob- 
servation of  beauty  which,  associated  with  the  pursuit  of  nat- 
ural science,  at  present  forms  the  enjoyment  of  many  of  the 
more  intelligent  manufacturing  operatives.  Of  mechanical  in- 
genuity, there  is,  I imagine,  at  least  as  much  required  to  build 
a cathedral  as  to  cut  a tunnel  or  contrive  a locomotive  : we 
should,  therefore,  have  developed  as  much  science,  while  the 
artistical  element  of  intellect  would  have  been  added  to  the 
gain.  Meantime  we  should  ourselves  have  been  made  happier 
and  wiser  by  the  interest  we  should  have  taken  in  the  work 
with  which  we  were  personally  concerned  ; and  when  all  was 
done,  instead  of  the  very  doubtful  advantage  of  the  power  of 
going  fast  from  place  to  place,  we  should  have  had  the  certain 
advantage  of  increased  pleasure  in  stopping  at  home. 


THE  LAMP  OF  OBEDIENCE. 


201 


IX.  There  are  many  other  less  capacious,  but  more  con- 
stant, channels  of  expenditure,  quite  as  disputable  in  their 
beneficial  tendency  ; and  we  are,  perhaps,  hardly  enough  in 
the  habit  of  inquiring,  with  respect  to  any  particular  form  of 
luxury  or  any  customary  appliance  of  life,  whether  the  kind 
of  employment  it  gives  to  the  operative  or  the  dependant  be 
as  healthy  and  fitting  an  employment  as  we  might  otherwise 
provide  for  him.  It  is  not  enough  to  find  men  absolute  sub- 
sistence ; we  should  think  of  the  manner  of  life  which  our 
demands  necessitate  ; and  endeavor,  as  far  as  may  be,  to 
make  all  our  needs  such  as  may,  in  the  supply  of  them,  raise, 
as  well  as  feed,  the  poor.  It  is  far  better  to  give  work  which 
is  above  the  men,  than  to  educate  the  men  to  be  above  their 
work.  It  may  be  doubted,  for  instance,  whether  the  habits 
of  luxury,  which  necessitate  a large  train  of  men  servants,  be 
a wholesome  form  of  expenditure  ; and  more,  whether  the 
pursuits  which  have  a tendency  to  enlarge  the  class  of  the 
jockey  and  the  groom  be  a philanthropic  form  of  mental  occu- 
pation. So  again,  consider  the  large  number  of  men  whose 
lives  are  employed  by  civilized  nations  in  cutting  facets  upon 
jewels.  There  is  much  dexterity  of  hand,  patience,  and  inge- 
nuity thus  bestowed,  which  are  simply  burned  out  in  the  blaze 
of  the  tiara,  without,  so  far  as  I see,  bestowing  any  pleasure 
upon  those  who  wear  or  who  behold,  at  all  compensatory  for 
the  loss  of  life  and  mental  power  which  are  involved  in  the 
employment  of  the  workman.  He  would  be  far  more  healthily 
and  happily  sustained  by  being  set  to  carve  stone  ; certain 
qualities  of  his  mind,  for  which  there  is  no  room  in  his  present 
occupation,  would  develope  themselves  in  the  nobler ; and  I 
believe  that  most  women  would,  in  the  end,  prefer  the  pleas- 
ure of  having  built  a church,  or  contributed  to  the  adornment 
of  a cathedral,  to  the  pride  of  bearing  a certain  quantity  of 
adamant  on  their  foreheads. 

X.  I could  pursue  this  subject  willingly,  but  I have  some 
strange  notions  about  it  which  it  is  perhaps  wiser  not  loosely 
to  set  down.  I content  myself  with  finally  reasserting,  what 
has  been  throughout  the  burden  of  the  preceding  pages,  that 
whatever  rank,  or  whatever  importance,  may  be  attributed  or 


202 


TEE  LAMP  OF  OBEDIENCE. 


attached  to  their  immediate  subject,  there  is  at  least  soma 
value  in  the  analogies  with  which  its  pursuit  has  presented  us, 
and  some  instruction  in  the  frequent  reference  of  its  common* 
est  necessities  to  the  mighty  laws,  in  the  sense  and  scope  of 
which  all  men  are  Builders,  whom  every  hour  sees  laying  the 
stubble  or  the  stone. 

I have  paused,  not  once  nor  twice,  as  I wrote,  and  often  have 
checked  the  course  of  what  might  otherwise  have  been  impor- 
tunate persuasion,  as  the  thought  has  crossed  me,  how  soon 
all  Architecture  may  be  vain,  except  that  which  is  not  made 
with  hands.  There  is  something  ominous  in  the  light  which 
has  enabled  us  to  look  back  with  disdain  upon  the  ages  among 
whose  lovely  vestiges  we  have  been  wandering.  I could  smile 
when  I hear  the  hopeful  exultation  of  many,  at  the  new  reach 
of  worldly  science,  and  vigor  of  worldly  effort ; as  if  we  were 
again  at  the  beginning  of  days.  There  is  thunder  on  the  ho- 
rizon as  well  as  dawn.  The  sun  was  risen  upon  the  earth 
when  Lot  entered  into  Zoar. 


NOTES 


Note  1. 

Page  21. 

**  With  the  idolatrous  Egyptian 

The  probability  is  indeed  slight  in  comparison,  but  it  is  a probability 
nevertheless,  and  one  which  is  daily  on  the  increase.  I trust  that  I 
may  not  be  thought  to  underrate  the  danger  of  such  sympathy,  though 
I speak  lightly  of  the  chance  of  it.  I have  confidence  in  the  central 
religious  body  of  the  English  and  Scottish  people,  as  being  not  only 
untainted  with  Romanism,  but  immoveably  adverse  to  it:  and,  how- 
ever strangely  and  swiftly  the  heresy  of  the  Protestant  and  victory  of 
the  Papist  may  seem  to  be  extending  among  us,  I feel  assured  that 
there  are  barriers  in  the  living  faith  of  this  nation  which  neither  can 
overpass.  Yet  this  confidence  is  only  in  the  ultimate  faithfulness  of  a 
few,  not  in  the  security  of  the  nation  from  the  sin  and  the  punishment 
of  partial  apostasy.  Both  have,  indeed,  in  some  sort,  been  committed 
and  suffered  already  ; and,  in  expressing  my  belief  of  the  close  connec- 
tion of  the  distress  and  burden  which  the  mass  of  the  people  at  present 
sustain,  with  the  encouragement  which,  in  various  directions,  has  been 
given  to  the  Papist,  do  not  let  me  be  called  superstitious  or  irrational. 
No  man  was  ever  more  inclined  than  I,  both  by  natural  disposition  and 
by  many  ties  of  early  association,  to  a sympathy  with  the  principles 
and  forms  of  the  Romanist  Church  ; and  there  is  much  in  its  discipline 
which  conscientiously,  as  well  as  sympathetically,  I could  love  and  ad- 
vocate. But,  in  confessing  this  strength  of  affectionate  prejudice, 
surely  I vindicate  more  respect  for  my  firmly  expressed  belief,  that  the 
entire  doctrine  and  system  of  that  Church  is  in  the  fullest  sense  anti- 
Christian  ; that  its  lying  and  idolatrous  Power  is  the  darkest  plague 
that  ever  held  commission  to  hurt  the  Earth  ; that  all  those  yearnings 
for  unity  and  fellowship,  and  common  obedience,  which  have  been  the 
root  of  our  late  heresies,  are  as  false  in  their  grounds  as  fatal  in  their 
termination  ; that  we  never  can  have  the  remotest  fellowship  with  the 
utterers  of  that  fearful  Falsehood,  and  live  ; that  we  have  nothing  to 
look  to  from  them  but  treacherous  hostility  ; and  that,  exactly  in  pro- 
portion to  the  sternness  of  our  separation  from  them,  will  be  not  only 


204 


NOTES. 


the  spiritual  but  the  temporal  blessings  granted  by  God  to  this  country. 
How  close  has  been  the  correspondence  hitherto  between  the  degree  of 
resistance  to  Romanism  marked  in  our  national  acts,  and  the  honor 
with  which  those  acts  have  been  crowned,  has  been  sufficiently  proved 
in  a short  essay  by  a writer  whose  investigations  into  the  influence  of 
Religion  upon  the  fate  of  Nations  have  been  singularly  earnest  and  sue* 
cessful — a writer  with  whom  I faithfully  and  firmly  believe  that  Eng- 
land will  never  be  prosperous  again,  and  that  the  honor  of  her  arms 
will  be  tarnished,  and  her  commerce  blighted,  and  her  national  char- 
acter  degraded,  until  the  Romanist  is  expelled  from  the  place  which 
has  impiously  been  conceded  to  him  among  her  legislators.  “ What- 
ever be  the  lot  of  those  to  whom  error  is  an  inheritance,  woe  be  to  the 
man  and  the  people  to  whom  it  is  an  adoption.  If  England,  free  above 
all  other  nations,  sustained  amidst  the  trials  which  have  covered  Eu- 
rope, before  her  eyes,  with  burning  and  slaughter,  and  enlightened  by 
the  fullest  knowledge  of  divine  truth,  shall  refuse  fidelity  to  the  com- 
pact by  which  those  matchless  privileges  have  been  given,  her  condem- 
nation will  not  linger.  She  has  already  made  one  step  full  of  danger. 
She  has  committed  the  capital  error  of  mistaking  that  for  a purely  polit- 
ical question  which  was  a purely  religious  one.  Her  foot  already  hangs 
over  the  edge  of  the  precipice.  It  must  be  retracted,  or  the  empire  is  but 
a name.  In  the  clouds  and  darkness  which  seem  to  be  deepening  on 
all  human  policy — in  the  gathering  tumults  of  Europe,  and  the  feverish 
discontents  at  home — it  may  be  even  difficult  to  discern  where  the 
power  yet  lives  to  erect  the  fallen  majesty  of  the  constitution  once  more. 
But  there  are  mighty  means  in  sincerity  ; and  if  no  miracle  was  ever 
wrought  for  the  faithless  and  despa' ring,  the  country  that  will  help  it- 
self will  never  be  left  destitute  of  the  help  of  Heaven  ” (Historical  Es- 
says, by  the  Rev.  Dr.  Croly,  1842).  The  first  of  these  essays,  “Eng- 
land the  Fortress  of  Christianity,”  I most  earnestly  recommend  to  the 
meditation  of  those  who  doubt  that  a special  punishment  is  inflicted  by 
the  Deity  upon  all  national  crime,  and  perhaps,  of  all  such  crime  most 
instantly  upon  the  betrayal  on  the  part  of  England  of  the  truth  and  faith 
with  which  she  has  been  entrusted. 


Note  II. 

Page  25. 

“ Not  the  gift,  but  the  giving. n 

Much  attention  has  lately  been  directed  to  the  subject  of  religious 
art,  and  we  are  now  in  possession  of  all  kinds  of  interpretations  and 
classifications  of  it,  and  of  the  leading  facts  of  its  history.  But  the 
greatest  question  of  all  connected  with  it  remains  entirely  unanswered* 


NOTES. 


205 


What  good  did  it  do  to  real  religion  ? There  is  no  subject  into  which  X 
should  so  much  rejoice  to  see  a serious  and  conscientious  inquiry  insti- 
tuted as  this  ; an  inquiry  neither  undertaken  in  artistical  enthusiasm 
nor  in  monkish  sympathy,  but  dogged,  merciless  and  fearless.  I love 
the  religious  art  of  Italy  as  well  as  most  men,  but  there  is  a wide  differ- 
ence between  loving  it  as  a manifestation  of  individual  feeling,  and 
iooking  to  it  as  an  instrument  of  popular  benefit.  I have  not  knowledge 
enough  to  form  even  the  shadow  of  an  opinion  on  this  latter  point,  and 
I should  be  most  grateful  to  any  one  who  would  put  it  in  my  power  to 
do  so.  There  are,  as  it  seems  to  me,  three  distinct  questions  to  be  con- 
sidered : the  first,  What  has  been  the  effect  of  external  splendor  on 
the  genuineness  and  earnestness  of  Christian  worship  ? the  second,  What 
the  use  of  pictorial  or  sculptural  representation  in  the  communication  of 
Christian  historical  knowledge,  or  excitement  of  affectionate  imagina- 
tion V the  third,  What  the  influence  of  the  practice  of  religious  art  on 
the  life  of  the  artist  ? 

In  answering  these  inquiries,  we  should  have  to  consider  separately 
every  collateral  influence  and  circumstance  ; and,  by  a most  subtle 
analysis,  to  eliminate  the  real  effect  of  art  from  the  effects  of  the  abuses 
with  which  it  was  associated.  This  could  be  done  only  by  a Christian  ; 
not  a man  who  would  fall  in  love  with  a sweet  color  or  sweet  expres- 
sion, but  who  would  look  for  true  faith  and  consistent  life  as  the  object 
of  all.  It  never  has  been  done  yet,  and  the  question  remains  a subject 
of  vain  and  endless  contention  between  parties  of  opposite  prejudices 
and  temperaments. 

Note  III. 

Page  26. 

“ To  the  concealment  of  what  is  really  good  or  great.19 

I have  often  been  surprised  at  the  supposition  that  Romanism,  in  its 
present  condition,  could  either  patronise  art  or  profit  by  it.  The  noble 
painted  windows  of  St.  Maclou  at  Rouen,  and  many  other  churches  in 
France,  are  entirely  blocked  up  behind  the  altars  by  the  erection  of 
huge  gilded  wooden  sunbeams,  with  interspersed  cherubs. 


Note  IV. 

Page  33. 

“ With  different  pattern  of  traceries  in  each.19 

I have  certainly  not  examined  the  seven  hundred  and  four  traceries 
(four  to  each  niche)  so  as  to  be  sure  that  none  are  alike  ; but  they  have 
the  aspect  of  continual  variation,  and  even  the  roses  of  the  pendants  of 
the  small  groined  niche  roofs  are  all  of  different  patterns. 


206 


NOTES. 


Note  V. 

Page  43. 

“ Its  flamboyant  traceries  of  the  last  and  most  degraded  forms.” 

They  are  noticed  by  Mr.  Whewell  as  forming  the  figure  of  the  fleur-da 
Jis,  always  a mark,  when  in  tracery  bars,  of  the  most  debased  flamboy- 
ant. It  occurs  iu  the  central  tower  of  Bayeux,  very  richly  in  the  but- 
tresses of  St.  Gervais  at  Falaise,  and  in  the  small  niches  of  some  of  the 
domestic  buildings  at  Rouen.  Nor  is  it  only  the  tower  of  St.  Ouen 
which  is  overrated.  Its  nave  is  a base  imitation,  in  the  flamboyant  pe- 
riod, of  an  early  Gothic  arrangement ; the  niches  on  its  piers  are  bar- 
barisms ; there  is  a huge  square  shaft  run  through  the  ceiling  of  the 
aisles  to  support  the  nave  piers,  the  ugliest  excrescence  I ever  saw  on 
a Gothic  building  ; the  traceries  of  the  nave  are  the  most  insipid  and 
faded  flamboyant ; those  of  the  transept  clerestory  present  a singularly 
distorted  condition  of  perpendicular  ; even  the  elaborate  door  of  the 
south  transept  is,  for  its  fine  period,  extravagant  and  almost  grotesque 
in  its  foliation  and  pendants.  There  is  nothing  truly  fine  in  the  church 
but  the  choir,  the  light  triforium,  and  tall  clerestory,  the  circle  of  East- 
ern chapels,  the  details  of  sculpture,  and  the  general  lightness  of  pro- 
portion ; these  merits  being  seen  to  the  utmost  advantage  by  the  free- 
dom of  the  body  of  the  church  from  all  incumbrance. 


Note  VI. 

Page  43. 

Compare  Iliad  5.  1.  219  with  Odyssey  fl.  1.  5—10. 


Note  VII. 

Page  44. 

“ Does  not  admit  iron  as  a constructive  material.* 
Except  in  Chaucer’s  noble  temple  of  Mars. 

“ And  dounward  from  an  hill  under  a bent, 

Tlier  stood  the  temple  of  Mars,  armipotent, 
Wrought  all  of  burned  stele,  of  which  th’  entree 
Was  longe  and  streite,  and  gastly  for  to  see. 

And  thereout  came  a rage  and  swiche  a vise, 
That  it  made  all  the  gates  for  to  rise. 

The  northern  light  in  at  the  dore  shone, 

For  window  on  the  wall  ne  was  ther  none, 
Thurgli  which  men  mighten  any  light  discerns 
The  dore  was  all  of  athamant  eterne, 


NOTES. 


207 


Yolenched  overthwart  and  ende  long 
With  yren  tough,  and  for  to  make  it  strong, 

Every  piler  the  temple  to  sustene 

Was  tonne-gret,  of  yren  bright  and  shene.” 

The  Knighte's  Tale. 

There  is,  by  the  bye,  an  exquisite  piece  of  architectural  color  just  be* 
Sore : 

“ And  northward,  in  a turret  on  the  wall 
Of  alabaster  white , and  red  corail , 

An  oratorie  riche  for  to  see, 

In  worship  of  Diane  of  Chastitee.” 


Note  VIII. 

Page  44. 

“ The  Builders  of  Salisbury.” 

“ This  way  of  tying  walls  together  with  iron,  instead  of  making  them 
)f  that  substance  and  form,  that  they  shall  naturally  poise  themselves 
upon  their  buttment,  is  against  the  rules  of  good  architecture,  not  only 
/because  iron  is  corruptible  by  rust,  but  because  it  is  fallacious,  having 
unequal  veins  in  the  metal,  some  places  of  the  same  bar  being  three 
times  stronger  than  others,  and  yet  all  sound  to  appearance.”  Survey 
of  Salisbury  Cathedral  in  1668,  by  Sir  C.  Wren.  For  my  own  part,  I 
think  it  better  work  to  bind  a tower  with  iron,  than  to  support  a false 
dome  by  a brick  pyramid. 


Note  IX. 

Page  60. 

Plate  III. 

In  this  plate,  figures  4,  5,  and  6,  are  glazed  windows,  but  fig.  2 is  the 
open  light  of  a belfry  tower,  and  figures  1 and  8 are  in  triforia,  the  lat- 
ter also  occurring  tilled,  on  the  central  tower  of  Coutances. 


Note  X. 

Page  94. 

“ Ornaments  of  the  transept  toioers  of  Rouen.” 

The  reader  cannot  but  observe  agreeableness,  as  a mere  arrangement  of 
shade,  which  especially  belongs  to  the  “ sacred  trefoil.”  I do  not  think 
that  the  element  of  foliation  has  been  enough  insisted  upon  in  its  inti- 
mate relations  with  the  power  of  Gothic  work.  If  I were  asked  what 


208 


NOTES. 


was  the  most  distinctive  feature  of  its  perfect  style,  I should  say  the 
Trefoil.  It  is  the  very  soul  of  it  ; and  I think  the  loveliest  Gothic  is 
alwaj'S  formed  upon  simple  and  bold  tracings  of  it,  taking  place  between 
the  blank  lancet  arch  on  the  one  hand,  and  the  overcharged  cinque 
foiled  arch  on  the  other. 


Note  XI. 

Page  95. 

ie  And  levelled  cusps  of  stone.” 

The  plate  represents  one  of  the  lateral  windows  of  the  third  story  of 
the  Palazzo  Foscari.  It  was  drawn  from  the  opposite  side  of  the  Grand 
Canal,  and  the  lines  of  its  traceries  are  therefore  given  as  they  appear  in 
somewhat  distant  effect.  It  shows  only  segments  of  the  characteristic 
quatrefoils  of  the  central  windows.  I found  by  measurement  their  con- 
struction exceedingly  simple.  Four  circles  are  drawn  in  contact  within 
the  large  circle.  Two  tangential  lines  are  then  drawn  to  each  opposite 
pair,  enclosing  the  four  circles  in  a hollow  cross.  An  inner  circle  struck 
through  the  intersections  of  the  circles  by  the  tangents,  truncates  the 
cusps. 


Note  XII. 

Page  124. 

€<  Into  vertical  equal  parts” 

Not  absolutely  so.  There  are  variations  partly  accidental  (or  at  least 
compelled  by  the  architect’s  effort  to  recover  the  vertical),  between 
the  sides  of  the  stories  ; and  the  upper  and  lower  stor}'  are  taller  than 
the  rest.  There  is,  however,  an  apparent  equality  between  five  out  of 
the  eight  tiers. 


Note  XIII. 

Page  133. 

“ Never  paint  a column  with  vertical  lines” 

It  should  be  observed,  however,  that  any  pattern  which  gives  oppo- 
nent lines  in  its  parts,  may  be  arranged  on  lines  parallel  with  the  main 
structure.  Thus,  rows  of  diamonds,  like  spots  on  a snake’s  back,  or  the 
bones  on  a sturgeon,  are  exquisitely  applied  both  to  vertical  and  spiral 
columns.  The  loveliest  instances  of  such  decoration  thatT  know,  are 
the  pillars  of  the  cloister  of  St.  John  Lateran,  lately  illustrated  by  Mr. 
Digby  Wyatt,  in  his  most  valuable  and  faithful  work  on  antique  mo* 
sale. 


NOTES. 


209 


Note  XIV. 

Page  139. 

On  the  cover  of  this  volume  the  reader  will  find  some  figure  outlines 
of  the  same  period  and  character,  from  the  floor  of  San  Miniato  at  Flor- 
ence. I have  to  thank  its  designer,  Mr.  W.  Harry  Rogers,  for  his  intelli- 
gent arrangement  of  them,  and  graceful  adaptation  of  the  connecting 
arabesque.  (Stamp  on  cloth  cover  of  London  edition.) 


Note  XV. 

Page  169. 

“ The  flowers  lost  their  light , the  river  its  music .*♦ 

Yet  not  all  their  light,  nor  all  their  music.  Compare  Modern  Paint- 
ers, vol.  ii.  sec.  1.  chap.  iv.  § 8. 


Note  XVL 
Page  181. 

“ By  the  artists  of  the  time  of  Pericles .” 

This  subordination  was  first  remarked  to  me  by  a friend,  whose  pro- 
found knowledge  of  Greek  art  will  not,  I trust,  be  reserved  always  for 
the  advantage  of  his  friends  only : Mr.  C.  Newton,  of  the  British  Mu- 
seum. 


Note  XVII. 

Page  188. 

“ In  one  of  the  noblest  poems'* 
Coleridge’s  Ode  to  France  : 

“ Ye  Clouds ! that  far  above  me  float  and  pause, 
Whose  pathless  march  no  mortal  may  control ! 

Ye  Ocean-Waves  ! that  wheresoe’er  ye  roll, 

Yield  homage  only  to  eternal  laws  ! 

Ye  Woods ! that  listen  to  the  night-birds  singing, 
Midway  the  smooth  and  perilous  slope  reclined, 
Save  when  your  own  imperious  branches  swinging, 
Have  made  a solemn  music  of  the  wind  1 
Where,  like  a man  beloved  of  God, 

Through  glooms,  which  never  woodman  trod, 

How  oft,  pursuing  fancies  holy, 

My  moonlight  way  o’er  flowering  weeds  I wound, 
Inspired,  beyond  the  guess  of  folly, 

14 


210 


NOTES. 


By  each  rude  shape  and  wild  unconquerable  sound ! 
O ye  loud  Waves  ! and  O ye  Forests  high  ! 

And  O ye  Clouds  that  far  above  me  soared  I 
Thou  rising  Sun  ! thou  blue  rejoicing  Sky  ! 

Yea,  everything  that  is  and  will  be  free  1 
Bear  witness  for  me,  wheresoe’er  ye  be, 

With  what  deep  worship  I have  still  adored 
The  spirit  of  divinest  Liberty.  ” 

Noble  verse,  but  erring  thought : contrast  George  Herbert 

“ Slight  those  who  say  amidst  their  sickly  healths, 
Thou  livest  by  rule.  What  doth  not  so  but  man  2 
Houses  are  built  by  rule  and  Commonwealths. 
Entice  the  trusty  sun,  if  that  you  can, 

From  his  ecliptic  line  ; beckon  the  sky. 

Who  lives  by  rule  then,  keeps  good  company. 

4‘  Who  keeps  no  guard  upon  himself  is  slack, 

And  rots  to  nothing  at  the  next  great  thaw  ; 

Man  is  a shop  of  rules  : a well-truss’d  pack 
Whose  every  parcel  underwrites  a law. 

Lose  not  thyself,  nor  give  thy  humors  way  ; 

God  gave  them  to  thee  under  lock  and  key.” 


LECTURES 

ON 

ARCHITECTURE  AND  PAINTING 


DELIVERED  AT  EDINBURGH,  IN  NOVEMBER,  1853. 


f'l  : 


PKEEACE. 


The  following  Lectures  are  printed,  as  far  as  possible,  just 
as  they  were  delivered.  Here  and  there  a sentence  which 
seemed  obscure  has  been  mended,  and  the  passages  which  had 
not  been  previously  written,  have  been,  of  course  imperfectly, 
supplied  from  memory.  But  I am  well  assured  that  nothing 
of  any  substantial  importance,  which  was  said  in  the  lecture- 
room,  is  either  omitted,  or  altered  in  its  signification,  with 
the  exception  only  of  a few  sentences  struck  out  from  the 
notice  of  the  works  of  Turner,  in  consequence  of  the  impossi- 
bility of  engraving  the  drawings  by  which  they  were  illustrated, 
except  at  a cost  which  would  have  too  much  raised  the  price 
pf  the  volume.  Some  elucidatory  remarks  have,  however, 
been  added  at  the  close  of  the  second  and  fourth  Lectures, 
which  I hope  may  be  of  more  use  than  the  passages  which  I 
was  obliged  to  omit. 

The  drawings  by  which  the  Lectures  on  Architecture  were 
illustrated  have  been  carefully  reduced,  and  well  transferred 
to  wood  by  Mr.  Thurston  Thompson.  Those  which  were 
given  in  the  course  of  the  notices  of  schools  of  painting  could 
not  be  so  transferred,  having  been  drawn  in  colour ; and  I 
have  therefore  merely  had  a few  lines,  absolutely  necessary  to 
make  the  text  intelligible,  copied  from  engravings. 

I forgot,  in  preparing  the  second  Lecture  for  the  press,  to 
quote  a passage  from  Lord  Lindsay’s  “ Christian  Art,”  illus- 
trative of  what  is  said  in  that  lecture  (page  57),  respecting  the 
energy  of  the  mediaeval  republics.  This  passage,  describing 


214 


PREFACE. 


the  circumstances  under  which  the  Campanile  of  the  Duomo 
of  Florence  was  built,  is  interesting  also  as  noticing  the 
universality  of  talent  which  was  required  of  architects  ; and 
which,  as  I have  asserted  in  the  Addenda  (p.  65),  always 
ought  to  be  required  of  them.  I do  not,  however,  now 
regret  the  omission,  as  I cannot  easily  imagine  a better 
preface  to  an  essay  on  civil  architecture  than  this  simple 
statement. 

“In  1332,  Giotto  was  chosen  to  erect  it  (the  campanile),  on 
the  ground,  avowedly,  of  the  universality  of  his  talents,  with 
the  appointment  of  Capo  Maestro,  or  chief  Architect  (chief 
Master,  I should  rather  write),  of  the  Cathedral  and  its  de- 
pendencies, a yearly  salary  of  one  hundred  gold  florins,  and 
the  privilege  of  citizenship,  under  the  special  understanding 
that  he  was  not  to  quit  Florence.  His  designs  being  ap- 
proved of,  the  republic  passed  a decree  in  the  spring  of  1334, 
that  the  Campanile  should  be  built  so  as  to  exceed  in  mag- 
nificence, height,  and  excellence  of  workmanship  whatever  in 
that  kind  had  been  achieved  by  the  Greeks  and  Romans  in 
the  time  of  their  utmost  power  and  greatness.  The  first 
stone  was  laid,  accordingly,  with  great  pomp,  on  the  18th  of 
July  following,  and  the  work  prosecuted  with  vigour,  and  with 
such  costliness  and  utter  disregard  of  expense,  that  a citizen 
of  Verona,  looking  on,  exclaimed  that  the  republic  was  taxing 
her  strength  too  far,  that  the  united  resources  of  two  great 
monarchs  would  be  insufficient  to  complete  it ; a criticism 
which  the  Signoria  resented  by  confining  him  for  two  months 
in  prison,  and  afterwards  conducting  him  through  the  public 
treasury,  to  teach  him  that  the  Florentines  could  build  their 
whole  city  of  marble,  and  not  one  poor  steeple  only,  were 
they  so  inclined.” 

I see  that  “ The  Builder,”  vol.  xi.  page  690,  has  been  en- 
deavouring to  inspire  the  citizens  of  Leeds  with  some  pride 


PREFACE. 


215 


of  this  kind  respecting  their  town-hall.  The  pride  would  be 
well,  but  I sincerely  trust  that  the  tower  in  question  may  not 
be  built  on  the  design  there  proposed.  I am  sorry  to  have  to 
write  a special  criticism,  but  it  must  be  remembered  that  the 
best  works,  by  the  best  men  living,  are  in  this  age  abused 
without  mercy  by  nameless  critics  ; and  it  would  be  unjust 
to  the  public,  if  those  who  have  given  their  names  as  guar- 
antee for  their  sincerity  never  had  the  courage  to  enter  a pro- 
test against  the  execution  of  designs  which  appear  to  them 
unworthy. 

Denmark  Hill, 

16th  April,  1854. 


LECTURES 


ON 

ARCHITECTURE  AND  PAINTING. 


LECTURE  L 

I think  myself  peculiarly  happy  in  being  permitted  to  ad< 
dress  the  citizens  of  Edinburgh  on  the  subject  of  architecture, 
for  it  is  one  which,  they  cannot  but  feel,  interests  them  nearly. 
Of  all  the  cities  in  the  British  Islands,  Edinburgh  is  the  one 
which  presents  most  advantages  for  the  display  of  a noble 
building  ; and  which,  on  the  other  hand,  sustains  most  injury 
in  the  erection  of  a commonplace  or  unworthy  one.  You  are 
all  proud  of  your  city  : surely  you  must  feel  it  a duty  in  some 
sort  to  justify  your  pride  ; that  is  to  say,  to  give  yourselves  a 
right  to  be  proud  of  it.  That  you  were  born  under  the  shadow 
of  its  two  fantastic  mountains, — that  you  live  where  from 
your  room  windows  you  can  trace  the  shores  of  its  glittering 
Eirth,  are  no  rightful  subjects  of  pride.  You  did  not  raise 
the  mountains,  nor  shape  the  shores  ; and  the  historical 
houses  of  your  Canongate,  and  the  broad  battlements  of  your 
castle,  reflect  honour  upon  you  only  through  your  ancestors. 
Before  you  boast  of  your  city,  before  even  you  venture  to  call 
it  yours , ought  you  not  scrupulously  to  weigh  the  exact  share 
you  have  had  in  adding  to  it  or  adorning  it,  to  calculate  seri- 
ously the  influence  upon  its  aspect  which  the  work  of  your 
own  hands  has  exercised  ? I do  not  say  that,  even  when  you 


218 


LECTURES  ON  ARCHITECTURE 


regard  your  city  in  this  scrupulous  and  testing  spirit,  you 
have  not  considerable  ground  for  exultation.  As  far  as  I am 
acquainted  with  modern  architecture,  I am  aware  of  no  streets 
which,  in  simplicity  and  manliness  of  style,  or  general  breadth 
and  brightness  of  effect  equal  those  of  the  New  Town  of  Edin- 
burgh. But  yet  I am  well  persuaded  that  as  you  traverse 
those  streets,  your  feelings  of  pleasure  and  pride  in  them  are 
much  complicated  with  those  which  are  excited  entirely  by 
the  surrounding  scenery.  As  you  walk  up  or  down  George 
Street,  for  instance,  do  you  not  look  eagerly  for  every  open- 
ing to  the  north  and  south,  which  lets  in  the  lustre  of  the 
Firth  of  Forth,  or  the  rugged  outline  of  the  Castle  rock? 
Take  away  the  sea-waves,  and  the  dark  basalt,  and  I fear  you 
would  find  little  to  interest  you  in  George  Street  by  itself. 
Now  I remember  a city,  more  nobly  placed  even  than  your 
Edinburgh,  which,  instead  of  the  valley  that  you  have  now  filled 
by  lines  of  railroad,  has  a broad  and  rushing  river  of  blue 
water  sweeping  through  the  heart  of  it ; which,  for  the  dark 
and  solitary  rock  that  bears  your  castle,  has  an  amphitheatre 
of  cliffs  crested  with  cypresses  and  olive  ; which,  for  the  two 
masses  of  Arthur’s  Seat  and  the  ranges  of  the  Pentlands,  has 
a chain  of  blue  mountains  higher  than  the  haughtiest  peaks 
of  your  Highlands ; and  which,  for  your  far-away  Ben  Ledi 
and  Ben  More,  has  the  great  central  chain  of  the  St.  Gothard 
Alps : and  yet,  as  you  go  out  of  the  gates,  and  walk  in  the 
suburban  streets  of  that  city — I mean  Verona — the  eye  never 
seeks  to  rest  on  that  external  scenery,  however  gorgeous  ; it 
does  not  look  for  the  gaps  between  the  houses,  as  you  do  here : 
it  may  for  a few  moments  follow  the  broken  line  of  the  great 
Alpine  battlements  ; but  it  is  only  where  they  form  a back- 
ground for  other  battlements,  built  by  the  hand  of  man. 
There  is  no  necessity  felt  to  dwell  on  the  blue  river  or  the 
burning  hills.  The  heart  and  eye  have  enough  to  do  in  the 
streets  of  the  city  itself ; they  are  contented  there ; nay,  they 
sometimes  turn  from  the  natural  scenery,  as  if  too  savage  and 
solitary,  to  dwell  with  a deeper  interest  on  the  palace  walls 
that  cast  their  shade  upon  the  streets,  and  the  crowd  of  tow- 
ers that  rise  out  of  that  shadow  into  the  depth  of  the  sky. 


Fig.  a.  Fig  5. 


; 


PLATE  I.— (Page  219— Voi.  Y.) 
Illustrative  Diagrams. 


AND  PAINTING. 


219 


That  is  a city  to  be  proud  of,  indeed ; and  it  is  this  kind 
of  architectural  dignity  which  you  should  aim  at,  in  what 
you  add  to  Edinburgh  or  rebuild  in  it.  For  remember,  you 
must  either  help  your  scenery  or  destroy  it ; whatever  you 
do  has  an  effect  of  one  kind  or  the  other  ; it  is  never  indif- 
ferent. But,  above  all,  remember  that  it  is  chiefly  by  pri- 
vate, not  by  public,  effort  that  your  city  must  be  adorned. 
It  does  not  matter  how  many  beautiful  public  buildings  you 
possess,  if  they  are  not  supported  by,  and  in  harmony  with, 
the  private  houses  of  the  town.  Neither  the  mind  nor  the 
eye  will  accept  a new  college,  or  a new  hospital,  or  a new  in- 
stitution, for  a city.  It  is  the  Canongate,  and  the  Princes 
Street,  and  the  High  Street  that  are  Edinburgh.  It  is  in 
your  own  private  houses  that  the  real  majesty  of  Edinburgh 
must  consist ; and,  what  is  more,  it  must  be  by  your  own 
personal  interest  that  the  style  of  the  architecture  which  rises 
around  you  must  be  principally  guided.  Do  not  think  that 
you  can  have  good  architecture  merely  by  paying  for  it.  It 
is  not  by  subscribing  liberally  for  a large  building  once  in 
forty  years  that  you  can  call  up  architects  and  inspiration. 
It  is  only  by  active  and  sympathetic  attention  to  the  domes- 
tic and  every  day  work  which  is  done  for  each  of  you,  that 
you  can  educate  either  yourselves  to  the  feeling,  or  your 
builders  to  the  doing,  of  what  is  truly  great. 

Well  but,  you  will  answer,  you  cannot  feel  interested  in 
architecture  : you  do  not  care  about  it,  and  cannot  care  about 
it.  I know  you  cannot.  About  such  architecture  as  is  built 
now-a-days,  no  mortal  ever  did  or  could  care.  You  do  not 
feel  interested  in  hearing  the  same  thing  over  and  over-  again  ; 
— why  do  you  suppose  you  can  feel  interested  in  seeing  the 
same  thing  over  and  over  again,  were  that  thing  even  the 
best  and  most  beautiful  in  the  world  ? Now,  you  all  know 
the  kind  of  window  which  you  usually  build  in  Edinburgh  : 
here  is  an  example  of  the  head  of  one  {fig.  1.),  a massy  lintel 
of  a single  stone,  laid  across  from  side  to  side,  with  bold 
square-cut  jambs — in  fact,  the  simplest  form  it  is  possible  to 
build.  It  is  by  no  means  a bad  form  ; on  the  contrary,  it  is 
very  manly  and  vigorous,  and  has  a certain  dignity  in  its 


220 


LECTURES  ON  ARCHITECTURE 


utter  refusal  of  ornament.  But  I cannot  say  it  is  entertain* 
ing.  How  many  windows  precisely  of  this  form  do  you  sup 
pose  there  are  in  the  New  Town  of  Edinburgh  ? I have  not 
counted  them  all  through  the  town,  but  I counted  them  this 
morning  along  this  very  Queen  Street,  in  which  your  Hall  is ; 
and  on  the  one  side  of  that  street,  there  are  of  these  windows, 
absolutely  similar  to  this  example,  and  altogether  devoid  of 
any  relief  by  decoration,  six  hundred  and  seventy-eight,.* 
And  your  decorations  are  just  as  monotonous  as  your  sim- 
plicities. How  many  Corinthian  and  Done  columns  do  you 
think  there  are  in  your  banks,  and  post-offices,  institutions, 
and  I know  not  what  else,  one  exactly  like  another  ? — and  yet 
you  expect  to  be  interested  ! Nay,  but,  you  will  answer  me 
again,  we  see  sunrises  and  sunsets,  and  violets  and  roses, 
over  and  over  again,  and  we  do  not  tire  of  them.  What ! 
did  you  ever  see  one  sunrise  like  another?  does  not  God 
vary  his  clouds  for  you  every  morning  and  every  night? 
though,  indeed,  there  is  enough  in  the  disappearing  and  ap- 
pearing of  the  great  orb  above  the  rolling  of  the  world,  to 
interest  all  of  us,  one  would  think,  for  as  many  times  as  we 
shall  see  it ; and  yet  the  aspect  of  it  i3  changed  for  us  daily. 
You  see  violets  and  roses  often,  and  are  not  tired  of  them. 
True ! but  you  did  not  often  see  two  roses  alike,  or,  if  you 
did,  you  took  care  not  to  put  them  beside  each  other  in  the 
same  nosegay,  for  fear  your  nosegay  should  be  uninterest- 
ing ; and  yet  you  think  you  can  put  150,000  square  windows 
side  by  side  in  the  same  streets,  and  still  be  interested  by 
them.  Why,  if  I w^ere  to  say  the  same  thing  over  and  over 
again,  for  the  single  hour  you  are  going  to  let  me  talk  to 
you,  would  you  listen  to  me?  and  yet  you  let  your  architects 
do  the  same  thing  over  and  over  again  for  three  centuries, 
and  expect  to  be  interested  by  their  architecture  ; with  a far- 
ther disadvantage  on  the  side  of  the  builder,  as  compared 
with  the  speaker,  that  my  wasted  words  would  cost  you  but 
little,  but  his  wasted  stones  have  cost  you  no  small  part  of 
your  incomes. 

* Including  York  Place  and  Picardy  Place,  hut  not  counting  any  win 
dow  which  has  mouldings. 


Fig:.  2. 

PLATE  II.— (Page  221— Yol.  Y.) 

Window  in  Oakham  Castle. 


AND  PAINTING. 


221 


" Well,  but,”  you  still  think  within  yourselves,  “ it  is  not 
right  that  architecture  should  be  interesting.  It  is  a very 
grand  thing,  this  architecture,  but  essentially  unentertain- 
ing. It  is  its  duty  to  be  dull,  it  is  monotonous  by  law  : it 
cannot  be  correct  and  yet  amusing.” 

Believe  me,  it  is  not  so.  All  things  that  are  worth  doing 
in  art,  are  interesting  and  attractive  when  they  are  done. 
There  is  no  law  of  right  which  consecrates  dulness.  The 
proof  of  a thing’s  being  right  is,  that  it  has  power  over  the 
heart ; that  it  excites  us,  wins  us,  or  helps  us.  I do  not  say 
that  it  has  influence  over  all,  but  it  has  over  a large  class,  one 
kind  of  art  being  fit  for  one  class,  and  another  for  another  ; 
and  there  is  no  goodness  in  art  which  is  independent  of  the 
power  of  pleasing.  Yet,  do  not  mistake  me  ; I do  not  mean 
that  there  is  no  such  thing  as  neglect  of  the  best  art,  or  de- 
light in  the  worst,  just  as  many  men  neglect  nature,  and  feed 
upon  what  is  artificial  and  base  ; but  I mean,  that  all  good 
art  has  the  capacity  of  pleasing,  if  people  will  attend  to  it  ; 
that  there  is  no  law  against  its  pleasing  ; but,  on  the  con- 
trary, something  wrong  either  in  the  spectator  or  the  art, 
when  it  ceases  to  please.  Now,  therefore,  if  you  feel  that 
your  present  school  of  architecture  is  unattractive  to  you,  I 
say  there  is  something  wrong,  either  in  the  architecture  or  in 
you ; and  I trust  you  will  not  think  I mean  to  flatter  you 
'when  I tell  you,  that  the  wrong  is  not  in  you,  but  in  the 
architecture.  Look  at  this  for  a moment  (fig.  2.);  it  is  a 
window  actually  existing — a window  of  an  English  domestic 
building  * — a window  built  six  hundred  years  ago.  You  will 
not  tell  me  you  have  no  pleasure  in  looking  at  this  ; or  that 
you  could  not,  by  any  possibility,  become  interested  in  the 
art  which  produced  it ; or  that,  if  every  window  in  your 
streets  wrere  of  some  such  form,  with  perpetual  change  in 
their  ornaments,  you  would  pass  up  and  dowm  the  street  with 
as  much  indifference  as  now,  when  your  windows  are  of  this 
form  (fig.  1.).  Can  you  for  an  instant  suppose  that  the  archi- 
tect was  a greater  or  wiser  man  avIio  built  this,  than  he  who 

* Oakham  Castle.  I have  enlarged  this  illustration  from  Mr.  Hudson 
Turner’s  admirable  work  on  the  domestic  architecture  of  England. 


222 


LECTURES  ON  ARCHITECTURE 


built  that  ? or  that  in  the  arrangement  of  these  dull  and  monot' 
onous  stones  there  is  more  wit  and  sense  than  you  can  pene- 
trate ? Believe  me,  the  wrong  is  not  in  you  ; you  would  all  like 
the  best  things  best,  if  you  only  saw  them.  What  is  wrong  in 
you  is  your  temper,  not  your  taste  ; your  patient  and  trust- 
ful temper,  which  lives  in  houses  whose  architecture  it  takes 
for  granted,  and  subscribes  to  public  edifices  from  which  it 
derives  no  enjoyment. 

“ Well,  but  what  are  we  to  do  ? ” you  will  say  to  me  ; we 
cannot  make  architects  of  ourselves.  Pardon  me,  you  can — 
and  you  ought.  Architecture  is  an  art  for  all  men  to  learn, 
because  all  are  concerned  with  it ; and  it  is  so  simple,  that 
there  is  no  excuse  for  not  being  acquainted  with  its  primary 
rules,  any  more  than  for  ignorance  of  grammar  or  of  spell- 
ing, which  are  both  of  them  far  more  difficult  sciences.  Far 
less  trouble  than  is  necessary  to  learn  how  to  play  chess,  or 
whist,  or  goff,  tolerably, — far  less  than  a schoolboy  takes  to 
win  the  meanest  prize  of  the  passing  year,  would  acquaint 
you  with  all  the  main  principles  of  the  construction  of  a 
Gothic  cathedral,  and  I believe  you  would  hardly  find  the 
study  less  amusing.  But  be  that  as  it  may,  there  are  one  or 
two  broad  principles  which  need  only  be  stated  to  be  under- 
stood and  accepted  ; and  those  I mean  to  lay  before  you, 
with  your  permission,  before  you  leave  this  room. 

You  must  all,  of  course,  have  observed  that  the  principal 
distinctions  between  existing  styles  of  architecture  depend  on 
their  methods  of  roofing  any  space,  as  a window  or  door  for 
instance,  or  a space  between  pillars  ; that  is  to  say,  that  the 
character  of  Greek  architecture,  and  of  all  that  is  derived 
from  it,  depends  on  its  roofing  a space  with  a single  stone 
laid  from  side  to  side  ; the  character  of  Bom  an  architecture, 
and  of  all  derived  from  it,  depends  on  its  roofing  spaces  with 
round  arches ; and  the  character  of  Gothic  architecture  de- 
pends on  its  roofing  spaces  with  pointed  arches  or  gables.  I 
need  not,  of  course,  in  any  way  follow  out  for  you  the  mode 
in  which  the  Greek  system  of  architecture  is  derived  from 
the  horizontal  lintel  ; but  I ought  perhaps  to  explain,  that  by 
Boman  architecture  I do  not  mean  that  spurious  condition 


AND  PAINTING. 


223 


of  temple  form  which  was  nothing  more  than  a luscious  imi- 
tation of  the  Greek  ; but  I mean  that  architecture  in  which 
the  Roman  spirit  truly  manifested  itself,  the  magnificent 
vaultings  of  the  aqueduct  and  the  bath,  and  the  colossal 
heaping  of  the  rough  stones  in  the  arches  of  the  amphi- 
theatre ; an  architecture  full  of  expression  of  gigantic  power 
aid  strength  of  will,  and  from  which  are  directly  derived  all 
our  most  impressive  early  buildings,  called,  as  you  know,  by 
various  antiquaries,  Saxon,  Norman,  or  Romanesque.  Now 
the  first  point  I wish  to  insist  upon  is,  that  the  Greek  system, 
considered  merely  as  a piece  of  construction,  is  weak  and 
barbarous  compared  with  the  two  others.  For  instance,  in 
the  case  of  a large  window  or  door,  such  as  fig.  1,  if  you  have 
at  your  disposal  a single  large  and  long  stone  you  may  indeed 
roof  it  in  the  Greek  manner,  as  you  have  done  here,  with  com- 
parative security  ; but  it  is  always  expensive  to  obtain  and  to 
raise  to  their  place  stones  of  this  large  size,  and  in  many 
places  nearly  impossible  to  obtain  them  at  all ; and  if  you 
have  not  such  stones,  and  still  insist  upon  roofing  the  space  in 
the  Greek  wTay,  that  is  to  say,  upon  having  a square  window, 
you  must  do  it  by  the  miserable  feeble  adjustment  of  bricks, 
fig.  3.*  You  are  well  aware,  of  course,  that  this  latter  is  the 
usual  way  in  which  such  windows  are  now  built  in  England  ; 
you  are  fortunate  enough  here  in  the  north  to  be  able  to  ob- 
tain single  stones,  and  this  circumstance  alone  gives  a con- 
siderable degree  of  grandeur  to  your  buildings.  But  in  all 
cases,  and  however  built,  you  cannot  but  see  in  a moment 
that  this  cross  bar  is  weak  and  imperfect.  It  may  be  strong 
enough  for  all  immediate  intents  and  purposes,  but  it  is  not  so 
strong  as  it  might  be  : however  well  the  house  is  built,  it  will 
still  not  stand  so  long  as  if  it  had  been  better  constructed  ; and 
there  is  hardly  a day  passes  but  you  may  see  some  rent  or  flaw 
in  bad  buildings  of  this  kind.  You  may  see  one  wlieuever  you 
choose  in  one  of  your  most  costly,  and  most  ugly  buildings, 
the  great  church  with  the  dome,  at  the  end  of  George  Street. 
i think  I never  saw  a building  with  the  principal  entrance  so 
utterly  ghastly  and  oppressive  ; and  it  is  as  weak  as  it  is 
* On  this  subject  see  “ The  Builder,”  voL  xi.  p.  709, 


224 


LECTURES  ON  ARCHITECTURE 


ghastly.  The  huge  horizontal  lintel  above  the  door  is  already 
split  right  through.  But  you  are  not  aware  of  a thousandth 
part  of  the  evil : the  pieces  of  building  that  you  see  are  all 
carefully  done  ; it  is  in  the  parts  that  are  to  be  concealed  by 
paint  and  plaster  that  the  bad  building  of  the  day  is  thor- 
oughly committed.  The  main  mischief  lies  in  the  strange 
devices  that  are  used  to  support  the  long  horizontal  cross 
beams  of  our  larger  apartments  and  shops,  and  the  frame- 
work of  unseen  walls  ; girders  and  ties  of  cast  iron,  and  props 
and  wedges,  and  laths  nailed  and  bolted  together,  on  mar- 
vellously scientific  principles ; so  scientific,  that  every  now 
and  then,  when  some  tender  reparation  is  undertaken  by  the 
unconscious  householder,  the  whole  house  crashes  into  a heap 
of  ruin,  so  total,  that  the  jury  which  sits  on  the  bodies  of  the 
inhabitants  cannot  tell  what  has  been  the  matter  with  it,  and 
returns  a dim  verdict  of  accidental  death.  Did  you  read  the 
account  of  the  proceedings  at  the  Crystal  Palace  at  Sydenham 
the  other  day  ? Some  dozen  of  men  crushed  up  among  the 
splinters  of  the  scaffolding  in  an  instant,  nobody  knew  why. 
All  the  engineers  declare  the  scaffolding  to  have  been  erected 
on  the  best  principles, — that  the  fall  of  it  is  as  much  a mys- 
tery as  if  it  had  fallen  from  heaven,  and  were  all  meteoric 
stones.  The  jury  go  to  Sydenham  and  look  at  the  heap  of 
shattered  bolts  and  girders,  and  come  back  as  wise  as  they 
went.  Accidental  death.  Yes  verily  ; the  lives  of  all  those 
dozen  of  men  had  been  hanging  for  months  at  the  mercy  of 
a flaw  in  an  inch  or  two  of  cast  iron.  Very  accidental  in- 
deed ! Not  the  less  pitiable.  I grant  it  not  to  be  an  easy 
thing  to  raise  scaffolding  to  the  height  of  the  Crystal  Palace 
without  incurring  some  danger,  but  that  is  no  reason  why  your 
houses  should  ail  be  nothing  but  scaffolding.  The  common 
system  of  support  of  walls  over  shops  is  now  nothing  but 
permanent  scaffolding ; part  of  iron,  part  of  -wood,  part  of 
brick ; in  its  skeleton  state  awful  to  behold  ; the  weight  of 
three  or  four  stories  of  wall  resting  sometimes  on  two  or  three 
pillars  of  the  size  of  gas  pipes,  sometimes  on  a single  cross 
beam  of  wood,  laid  across  from  party  wall  to  party  wall  in 
the  Greek  manner.  I have  a vivid  recollection  at  this  mo- 


AND  PAINTING . 


225 


rnent  of  a vast  Leap  of  splinters  in  the  Borough  Road,  close 
to  St.  George’s  Southwark,  in  the  road  between  my  own 
house  and  London.  I had  passed  it  the  day  before,  a goodly 
shop  front,  and  sufficient  house  above,  with  a few  repairs  un- 
dertaken in  the  shop  before  opening  a new  business.  The 
master  and  mistress  had  found  it  dusty  that  afternoon,  and 
went  out  to  tea.  When  they  came  back  in  the  evening,  they 
found  their  whole  house  in  the  form  of  a heap  of  bricks 
blocking  the  roadway,  with  a party  of  men  digging  out  their 
cook.  But  I do  not  insist  on  casualties  like  these,  disgrace- 
ful to  us  as  they  are,  for  it  is,  of  course,  perfectly  possible  to 
build  a perfectly  secure  house  or  a secure  window  in  the 
Greek  manner ; but  the  simple  fact  is,  that  in  order  to  ob- 
tain in  the  cross  lintel  the  same  amount  of  strength  which 
you  can  obtain  in  a pointed  arch,  you  must  go  to  an  im- 
mensely greater  cost  in  stone  or  in  labour.  Stonehenge  is 
strong  enough,  but  it  takes  some  trouble  to  build  in  the  man- 
ner of  Stonehenge  ; and  Stonehenge  itself  is  not  so  strong  as 
an  arch  of  the  Colosseum.  You  could  not  raise  a circle  of 
four  Stonehenges,  one  over  the  other,  with  safety  ; and  as  it 
is,  more  of  the  cross-stones  are  fallen  upon  the  plain  of  Sarum 
than  arches  rent  away,  except  by  the  hand  of  man,  from  the 
mighty  circle  of  Rome.  But  I waste  words  your  own  com- 
mon sense  must  show  you  in  a moment  that  this  is  a wTeak 
form  ; and  there  is  not  at  this  instant  a single  street  in 
London  where  some  house  could  not  be  pointed  out  with  a 
flaw  running  through  its  brickwork,  and  repairs  rendered 
necessary  in  consequence,  merely  owing  to  the  adoption  of 
this  bad  form  ; and  that  our  builders  know  so  well,  that  in 
myriads  of  instances  you  find  them  actually  throwing  con- 
cealed arches  above  the  horizontal  lintels  to  take  the  weight 
off  them  ; and  the  gabled  decoration  at  the  top  of  some  Pal- 
ladian  windows,  is  merely  the  ornamental  form  resulting  from 
a bold  device  of  the  old  Roman  builders  to  effect  the  same 
purpose. 

But  there  is  a farther  reason  for  our  adopting  the  pointed 
arch  than  its  being  the  strongest  form  ; it  is  also  the  most 
beautiful  form  in  which  a window  or  door-head  can  be  built 


226 


LECTURES  ON  ARCHITECTURE 


Not  the  most  beautiful  because  it  is  the  strongest ; but  most 
beautiful,  because  its  form  is  one  of  those  which,  as  we  know 
by  its  frequent  occurrence  in  the  work  of  nature  around  us, 
has  been  appointed  by  the  Deity  to  be  an  everlasting  source 
of  pleasure  to  the  human  mind. 

Gather  a branch  from  any  of  the  trees  or  flowers  to  which 
the  earth  owes  its  principal  beauty.  You  will  find  that  every 
one  of  its  leaves  is  terminated,  more  or  less,  in  the  form  of 
the  pointed  arch  ; and  to  that  form  owes  its  grace  and  char- 
acter. I will  take,  for  instance,  a spray  of  the  tree  which  so 
gracefully  adorns  your  Scottish  glens  and  crags — there  is  no 
lovelier  in  the  world — the  common  ash.  Here  is  a sketch  of 
the  clusters  of  leaves  which  form  the  extremity  of  one  of  its 
young  shoots  (fig.  4.)  ; and,  by  the  way,  it  will  furnish  us  with 
an  interesting  illustration  of  another  error  in  modern  archi- 
tectural systems.  You  know  how  fond  modern  architects,  like 
foolish  modern  politicians,  are  of  their  equalities,  and  simi- 
larities ; how  necessary  they  think  it  that  each  part  of  a 
building  should  be  like  every  other  part.  Now  Nature  abhors 
equality,  and  similitude,  just  as  much  as  foolish  men  love 
them.  You  will  find  that  the  ends  of  the  shoots  of  the  ash 
are  composed  of  four  * green  stalks  bearing  leaves,  spring- 
ing in  the  form  of  a cross,  if  seen  from  above,  as  in  fig.  5., 
Plate  I.,  and  at  first  you  will  suppose  the  four  arms  of  the 
cross  are  equal.  But  look  more  closely,  and  you  will  find  that 
two  opposite  arms  or  stalks  have  only  five  leaves  each,  and 
the  other  two  have  seven,  or  else,  two  have  seven,  and  the 
other  two  nine  ; but  always  one  pair  of  stalks  has  two  leaves 
more  than  the  other  pair.  Sometimes  the  tree  gets  a little 
puzzled,  and  forgets  which  is  to  be  the  longest  stalk,  and  be- 
gins with  a stem  for  seven  leaves  where  it  should  have  nine, 
and  then  recollects  itself  at  the  last  minute,  and  puts  on  an- 
other leaf  in  a great  hurry,  and  so  produces  a stalk  with  eight 
leaves  ; but  all  this  care  it  takes  merely  to  keep  itself  out  of 
equalities  ; and  all  its  grace  and  power  of  pleasing  are  owing 

* Sometimes  of  six  ; that  is  to  say,  they  spring  in  pairs  ; only  the  t^o 
uppermost  pairs,  sometimes  the  three  uppermost,  spring  so  close  together 
as  to  appear  one  cluster. 


PLATE  IIL— (Page  226— Vol.  V.) 

Spray  of  Ash-Tree,  and  Improvement  of  the  Same 
on  Greek  Principles. 


AND  PAINTING. 


227 


to  its  doing  so,  together  with  the  lovely  curves  in  which  its 
stalks,  thus  arranged,  spring  from  the  main  bough.  Fig.  5. 
is  a plan  of  their  arrangement  merely,  but  fig.  4.  is  the  way 
in  which  you  are  most  likely  to  see  them  : and  observe,  they 
spring  from  the  stalk  precisely  as  a Gothic  vaulted  roof  springs, 
each  stalk  representing  a rib  of  the  roof,  and  the  leaves  its 
crossing  stones  ; and  the  beauty  of  each  of  those  leaves  is  al- 
together owing  to  its  terminating  in  the  Gothic  form,  the 
pointed  arch.  Now  do  you  think  you  would  have  liked  your 
ash  trees  as  well,  if  Nature  had  taught  them  Greek,  and  shown 
them  how  to  grow  according  to  the  received  Attic  architectural 
rules  of  right  ? I will  try  you.  Here  is  a cluster  of  ash  leaves, 
which  I have  grown  expressly  for  you  on  Greek  principles 
(fig.  6.,  Plate  III.).  How  do  you  like  it? 

Observe,  I have  played  you  no  trick  in  this  comparison.  It 
is  perfectly  fair  in  all  respects.  I have  merely  substituted 
for  the  beautiful  spring  of  the  Gothic  vaulting  in  the  ash 
bough,  a cross  lintel,  and  then,  in  order  to  raise  the  leaves  to 
the  same  height,  I introduce  vertical  columns,  and  I make 
the  leaves  square-headed  instead  of  pointed,  and  their  lateral 
ribs  at  right  angles  -with  the  central  rib,  instead  of  sloping 
from  it.  I have,  indeed,  only  given  you  two  boughs  instead 
of  four  ; because  the  perspective  of  the  crossing  ones  could 
not  have  been  given  without  confusing  the  figure  ; but  I im- 
agine you  have  quite  enough  of  them  as  it  is. 

Nay,  but  some  of  you  instantly  answer,  if  we  had  been  as 
long  accustomed  to  square-leaved  asli  trees  as  we  have  been 
to  sharp-leaved  ash  trees,  wTe  should  like  them  just  as  well. 
Bo  not  think  it.  Are  you  not  much  more  accustomed  to  grey 
whinstone  and  brown  sandstone  than  you  are  to  rubies  or 
emeralds  ? and  yet  will  you  tell  me  you  think  them  as  beau- 
tiful ? Are  you  not  more  accustomed  to  the  ordinary  voices 
of  men  than  to  the  perfect  accents  of  sweet  singing  ? yet  do 
you  not  instantly  declare  the  song  to  be  loveliest  ? Examine 
well  the  channels  of  your  admiration,  and  you  will  find  that 
they  are,  in  verity,  as  unchangeable  as  the  channels  of  your 
heart’s  blood  ; that  just  as  by  the  pressure  of  a bandage,  or 
by  unwholesome  and  perpetual  action  of  some  part  of  the 


228 


LECTURES  ON  ARCHITECTURE 


body,  that  blood  may  be  wasted  or  arrested,  and  in  its  stag, 
nancy  cease  to  nourish  the  frame  or  in  its  disturbed  flow  af- 
fect it  with  incurable  disease,  so  also  admiration  itself  may 
by  the  bandages  of  fashion,  bound  close  over  the  eyes  and 
the  arteries  of  the  soul,  be  arrested  in  its  natural  pulse  and 
healthy  flow  ; but  that  wherever  the  artificial  pressure  is  re- 
moved, it  will  return  into  that  bed  which  has  been  traced  for 
it  by  the  finger  of  God. 

Consider  this  subject  well,  and  you  will  find  that  custom 
has  indeed  no  real  influence  upon  our  feelings  of  the  beauti- 
ful, except  in  dulling  and  checking  them  ; that  is  to  say,  it 
will  and  does,  as  we  advance  in  years,  deaden  in  some  degree 
our  enjoyment  of  all  beauty,  but  it  in  no  wise  influences  our 
determination  of  what  is  beautiful  and  what  is  not.  You  see 
the  broad  blue  sky  every  day  over  your  heads  ; but  you  do 
not  for  that  reason  determine  blue  to  be  less  or  more  beauti- 
ful than  you  did  at  first ; you  are  unaccustomed  to  see  stones 
as  blue  as  the  sapphire,  but  you  do  not  for  that  reason  think 
the  sapphire  less  beautiful  than  other  stones.  The  blue  col- 
our is  everlastingly  appointed  by  the  Deity  to  be  a source  of 
delight ; and  whether  seen  perpetually  over  your  head,  or 
crystallised  once  in  a thousand  years  into  a single  and  incom- 
parable stone,  your  acknowledgment  of  its  beauty  is  equally 
natural,  simple,  and  instantaneous.  Pardon  me  for  engaging 
you  in  a metaphysical  discussion  ; for  it  is  necessary  to  the 
establishment  of  some  of  the  greatest  of  all  architectural 
principles  that  I should  fully  convince  you  of  this  great  truth, 
and  that  I should  quite  do  away  with  the  various  objections  to 
it,  which  I suppose  must  arise  in  your  minds.  Of  these  there 
is  one  more  which  I must  briefly  meet.  You  know  how  much 
confusion  has  been  introduced  into  the  subject  of  criticism, 
by  reference  to  the  power  of  Association  over  the  human 
heart ; you  know  how  often  it  has  been  said  that  custom 
must  have  something  to  do  with  our  ideas  of  beauty,  because 
it  endears  so  many  objects  to  the  affections.  But,  once  for 
all,  observe  that  the  powers  of  association  and  of  beauty  are 
two  entirely  distinct  powers, — as  distinct,  for  instance,  as  the 
forces  of  gravitation  and  electricity.  These  forces  may  act 


AND  PAINTING. 


229 


together,  or  may  neutralise  one  another,  but  are  not  for  that 
reason  to  be  supposed  the  same  force  ; and  the  charm  of 
association  will  sometimes  enhance,  and  sometimes  entirely 
overpower,  that  of  beauty  ; but  you  must  not  confound  the  two 
together.  You  love  many  things  because  you  are  accustomed  to 
them,  and  are  pained  by  many  things  because  they  are  strange 
to  you  ; but  that  does  not  make  the  accustomed  sight  more 
beautiful,  or  the  strange  one  less  so.  The  well  known  object 
may  be  dearer  to  you,  or  you  may  have  discovered  charms 
in  it  which  others  cannot ; but  the  charm  was  there  before 
you  discovered  it,  only  needing  time  and  love  to  perceive  it. 
You  love  your  friends  and  relations  more  than  all  the  world 
beside,  and  may  perceive  beauties  in  their  faces  which  others 
cannot  perceive  ; but  you  feel  that  you  would  be  ridiculous  in 
allowing  yourselves  to  think  them  the  most  beautiful  persons 
in  the  world : you  acknowledge  that  the  real  beauty  of  the 
human  countenance  depends  on  fixed  laws  of  form  and  ex- 
pression, and  not  on  the  affection  you  bear  to  it,  or  the  degree 
in  which  you  are  familiarised  with  it : and  so  does  the  beauty 
of  all  other  existences. 

Now,  therefore,  I think  that,  without  the  risk  of  any  farther 
serious  objection  occurring  to  you,  I may  state  what  I believe 
to  be  the  truth, — that  beauty  has  been  appointed  by  the 
Deity  to  be  one  of  the  elements  by  which  the  human  soul  is 
continually  sustained  ; it  is  therefore  to  be  found  more  or  less 
in  all  natural  objects,  but  in  order  that  we  may  not  satiate 
ourselves  with  it,  and  weary  of  it,  it  is  rarely  granted  to  us  in 
its  utmost  degrees.  When  we  see  it  in  those  utmost  degrees, 
we  are  attracted  to  it  strongly,  and  remember  it  long,  as  in 
the  case  of  singularly  beautiful  scenery,  or  a beautiful  coun- 
tenance. On  the  other  hand,  absolute  ugliness  is  admitted  as 
rarely  as  perfect  beauty  ; but  degrees  of  it  more  or  less  dis- 
tinct are  associated  with  whatever  has  the  nature  of  death 
and  sin,  just  as  beauty  is  associated  with  what  has  the  nature 
of  virtue  and  of  life. 

This  being  so,  you  see  that  when  the  relative  beauty  of  any 
particular  forms  has  to  be  examined,  we  may  reason,  from  the 
forms  of  nature  around  us,  in  this  manner what  nature 


230 


LECTURES  ON  ARCHITECTURE 


does  generally,  is  sure  to  be  more  or  less  beautiful ; what  she 
does  rarely,  will  either  be  very  beautiful,  or  absolutely  ugly  ; 
and  we  may  again  easily  determine,  if  we  are  not  willing  in 
such  a case  to  trust  our  feelings,  which  of  these  is  indeed  the 
case,  by  this  simple  rule,  that  if  the  rare  occurrence  is  the 
result  of  the  complete  fulfilment  of  a natural  law,  it  will  be 
beautiful ; if  of  the  violation  of  a natural  law,  it  will  be  ugly. 
For  instance,  a sapphire  is  the  result  of  the  complete  and 
perfect  fulfilment  of  the  laws  of  aggregation  in  the  earth  of 
alumina,  and  it  is  therefore  beautiful ; more  beautiful  than 
clay,  or  any  other  of  the  conditions  of  that  earth.  But  a 
square  leaf  on  any  tree  would  be  ugly,  being  a violation  of  the 
laws  of  growth  in  trees,*  and  we  ought  to  feel  it  so. 

Now,  then,  I proceed  to  argue  in  this  manner  from  what 
we  see  in  the  woods  and  fields  around  us  ; that  as  they  are 
evidently  meant  for  our  delight,  and  as  we  always  feel  them 
to  be  beautiful,  we  may  assume  that  the  forms  into  which 
their  leaves  are  cast  are  indeed  types  of  beauty,  not  of  extreme 
or  perfect,  but  average  beauty.  And  finding  that  they  inva- 
riably terminate  more  or  less  in  pointed  arches,  and  are  not 
square-headed,  I assert  the  pointed  arch  to  be  one  of  the 
forms  most  fitted  for  perpetual  contemplation  by  the  human 
mind ; that  it  is  one  of  those  which  never  weary,  however 
often  repeated  ; and  that  therefore  being  both  the  strongest 
in  structure,  and  a beautiful  form  (while  the  square  head  is 
both  weak  in  structure,  and  an  ugly  form),  we  are  unwise 
ever  to  build  in  any  other. 

Here,  however,  I must  anticipate  another  objection.  It 
may  be  asked  why  we  are  to  build  only  the  tops  of  the  win- 
dows pointed, — why  not  follow  the  leaves,  and  point  them  at 
the  bottom  also. 

For  this  simple  reason,  that,  while  in  architecture  you  are 
continually  called  upon  to  do  what  may  be  unnecessary  for 
the  sake  of  beauty,  you  are  never  called  upon  to  do  what  is 

* I am  at  present  aware  only  of  one  tree,  tlie  tulip  tree,  which  has  an  ex- 
ceptional form,  and  which,  I doubt  not,  every  one  will  admit  loses  much 
beauty  in  consequence.  All  other  leaves,  so  far  as  I know,  have  the 
round  or  pointed  arch  in  the  form  of  the  extremities  of  their  foils. 


PLATE  IV.— (Page  230— Vol.  V.) 
Window  in  Dumblane  Cathedral. 


AND  PAINTING. 


231 


inconvenient  for  the  sake  of  beauty.  You  want  the  level  win- 
dow sill  to  lean  upon,  or  to  allow  the  window  to  open  on  a 
balcony : the  eye  and  the  common  sense  of  the  beholder  re- 
quire this  necessity  to  be  met  before  any  laws  of  beauty  are 
thought  of  ; and  besides  this,  there  is  in  the  sill  no  necessity 
for  the  pointed  arch  as  a bearing  form  ; on  the  contrary,  it 
would  give  an  idea  of  weak  support  for  the  sides  of  the  win- 
dow, and  therefore  is  at  once  rejected  ; only  I beg  of  you  par- 
ticularly to  observe  that  the  level  sill,  although  useful,  and 
therefore  admitted,  does  not  therefore  become  beautiful ; the 
eye  does  not  like  it  so  well  as  the  top  of  the  window,  nor 
does  the  sculptor  like  to  attract  the  eye  to  it ; his  richest 
mouldings,  traceries,  and  sculptures  are  all  reserved  for  the 
top  of  the  window,  they  are  sparingly  granted  to  its  horizon- 
tal base.  And  farther,  observe,  that  when  neither  the  con- 
venience of  the  sill,  nor  the  support  of  the  structure,  are  any 
more  of  moment,  as  in  small  windows  and  traceries,  you  in- 
stantly have  the  point  given  to  the  bottom  of  the  window. 
Do  you  recollect  the  west  window  of  your  own  Dumblane 
Abbey?  If  you  look  in  any  common  guide-book,  you  will 
find  it  pointed  out  as  peculiarly  beautiful, — it  is  acknowl- 
edged to  be  beautiful  by  the  most  careless  observer.  And 
why  beautiful?  Look  at  it  (fig.  7.).  Simply  because  in  its 
great  contours  it  has  the  form  of  a forest  leaf,  and  because 
in  its  decoration  it  has  used  nothing  but  forest  leaves.  The 
sharp  and  expressive  moulding  which  surrounds  it  is  a very 
interesting  example  of  one  used  to  an  enormous  extent  by 
the  builders  of  the  early  English  Gothic,  usually  in  the  form 
seen  in  fig.  2.  above,  composed  of  clusters  of  four  sharp  leaves 
each,  originally  produced  by  sculpturing  the  sides  of  a four- 
sided pyramid,  and  afterwards  brought  more  or  less  into  a 
true  image  of  leaves,  but  deriving  all  its  beauty  from  the 
botanical  form.  In  the  present  instance  only  two  leaves  are 
set  in  each  cluster  ; and  the  architect  has  been  determined 
that  the  naturalism  should  be  perfect.  For  he  was  no  com- 
mon man  who  designed  that  cathedral  of  Dumblane.  I know 
not  anything  so  perfect  in  its  simplicity,  and  so  beautiful,  as 
far  as  it  reaches,  in  all  the  Gothic  with  which  I am  acquainted 


LECTURES  ON  ARCHITECTURE 


not) 

And  just  in  proportion  to  his  power  of  mind,  that  man  was 
content  to  work  under  Nature’s  teaching ; and  instead  of 
putting  a merely  formal  dogtooth,  as  every  body  else  did  at 
the  time,  he  went  down  to  the  woody  bank  of  the  sweet  river 
beneath  the  rocks  on  which  he  was  building,  and  he  took  up 
a few  of  the  fallen  leaves  that  lay  by  it,  and  he  set  them  in 
his  arch,  side  by  side,  for  ever.  And,  lqok — that  he  might  show 
you  he  had  done  this, — he  has  made  them  all  of  different 
sizes,  just  as  they  lay  ; and  that  you  might  not  by  any  chance 
miss  noticing  the  variety,  he  has  put  a great  broad  one  at  the 
top,  and  then  a little  one  turned  the  wrong  way,  next  to  it, 
so  that  you  must  be  blind  indeed  if  you  do  not  understand 
his  meaning.  And  the  healthy  change  and  playfulness  of 
this  just  does  in  the  stone-work  what  it  does  on  the  tree 
boughs,  and  is  a perpetual  refreshment  and  invigoration ; so 
that,  however  long  you  gaze  at  this  simple  ornament — and 
none  can  be  simpler,  a village  mason  could  carve  it  all  round 
the  window  in  a few  hours — you  are  never  weary  of  it,  it 
seems  always  new. 

It  is  true  that  oval  windows  of  this  form  are  comparatively 
rare  in  Gothic  work,  but,  as  you  well  know,  circular  or  wheel 
windows  are  used  constantly,  and  in  most  traceries  the 
apertures  are  curved  and  pointed  as  much  at  the  bottom  as 
the  top.  So  that  I believe  you  will  now  allow  me  to  proceed 
upon  the  assumption,  that  the  pointed  arch  is  indeed  the 
best  form  into  which  the  head  either  of  door  or  window  can 
be  thrown,  considered  as  a means  of  sustaining  weight  above 
it.  How  these  pointed  arches  ought  to  be  grouped  and  deco- 
rated, I shall  endeavour  to  show  you  in  my  next  lecture. 
Meantime  I must  beg  of  you  to  consider  farther  some  of  the 
general  points  connected  with  the  structure  of  the  roof. 

I am  sure  that  all  of  you  must  readily  acknowledge  the 
charm  which  is  imparted  to  any  landscape  by  the  presence  of 
cottages  ; and  you  must  over  and  over  again  have  paused  at 
the  wicket  gate  of  some  cottage  garden,  delighted  by  the  sim- 
ple beauty  of  the  honeysuckle  porch  and  latticed  window. 
Has  it  ever  occurred  to  you  to  ask  the  question,  what  effect 
the  cottage  would  have  upon  your  feelings  if  it  had  no  roof  f 


AND  PAINTING. 


233 


no  visible  roof,  I mean  ; — if  instead  of  the  thatched  slope,  in 
which  the  little  upper  windows  are  buried  deep,  as  in  a nest 
of  straw — or  the  rough  shelter  of  its  mountain  shales — or 
warm  colouring  of  russet  tiles — there  were  nothing  but  a flat 
leaden  top  to  it,  making  it  look  like  a large  packing-case  with 
windows  in  it?  I don’t  think  the  rarity  of  such  a sight 
would  make  you  feel  it  to  be  beautiful ; on  the  contrary,  if 
you  think  over  the  matter  you  will  find  that  you  actually  do 
owe,  and  ought  to  owe,  a great  part  of  your  pleasure  in  all 
cottage  scenery,  and  in  all  the  inexhaustible  imagery  of  litera- 
ture which  is  founded  upon  it,  to  the  conspicuousness  of  the 
cottage  roof — to  the  subordination  of  the  cottage  itself  to  its 
covering,  which  leaves,  in  nine  cases  out  of  ten,  really  more 
roof  than  anything  else.  It  is,  indeed,  not  so  much  the 
whitewashed  walls — nor  the  flowery  garden — nor  the  rude 
fragments  of  stones  set  for  steps  at  the  door — nor  any  other 
picturesqueness  of  the  building  which  interests  you,  so  much 
as  the  grey  bank  of  its  heavy7  eaves,  deep-cushioned  with 
green  moss  and  golden  stonecrop.  And  there  is  a profound, 
yet  evident,  reason  for  this  feeling.  The  very  soul  of  the 
cottage — the  essence  and  meaning  of  it — are  in  its  roof  ; it  is 
that,  mainly,  wherein  consists  its  shelter  ; that,  wherein  it 
differs  most  completely  from  a cleft  in  rocks  or  bower  in 
woods.  It  is  in  its  thick  impenetrable  coverlid  of  close 
thatch  that  its  wrhole  heart  and  hospitality  are  concentrated. 
Consider  the  difference,  in  sound,  of  the  expressions  “ beneath 
my  roof”  and  “within  my  walls,” — consider  whether  you 
would  be  best  sheltered,  in  a shed,  with  a stout  roof  sustained 
on  corner  posts,  or  in  an  enclosure  of  four  walls  without  a 
roof  at  all,— and  you  will  quickly  see  how  important  a part 
of  the  cottage  the  roof  must  always  be  to  the  mind  as  well 
as  to  the  eye,  and  how,  from  seeing  it,  the  greatest  part  of 
our  pleasure  must  continually  arise. 

Now,  do  you  suppose  that  which  is  so  all-important  in  a 
cottage,  can  be  of  small  importance  in  your  own  dwelling- 
house  ? Do  you  think  that  by  any  splendour  of  architecture — 
any  height  of  stories — you  can  atone  to  the  mind  for  the  loss 
of  the  aspect  of  the  roof  ? It  is  vain  to  say  you  take  the  roof 


234 


LECTURES  ON  ARCHITECTURE 


for  granted.  You  may  as  well  say  you  take  a man’s  kindness 
for  granted,  though  he  neither  looks  nor  speaks  kindly.  You 
may  know  him  to  be  kind  in  reality,  but  you  will  not  like  him 
so  well  as  if  he  spoke  and  looked  kindly  also.  And  whatever 
external  splendour  you  may  give  your  houses,  you  will  always 
feel  there  is  something  wanting,  unless  you  see  their  roofs 
plainly.  And  this  especially  in  the  north.  In  southern  archi 
tecture  the  roof  is  of  far  less  importance  ; but  here  the  soul  of 
domestic  building  is  in  the  largeness  and  conspicuousness  of 
the  protection  against  the  ponderous  snow  and  driving  sleet. 
You  may  make  the  fa9ade  of  the  square  pile,  if  the  roof  be  not 
seen,  as  handsome  as  you  please, — you  may  cover  it  with  dec- 
oration,— but  there  will  always  be  a heartlessness  about  it, 
which  you  will  not  know  how  to  conquer  ; above  all,  a per- 
petual difficulty  in  finishing  the  wall  at  top,  which  will  require 
all  kinds  of  strange  inventions  in  parapets  and  pinnacles  for  its 
decoration,  and  yet  will  never  look  light. 

Now,  I need  not  tell  you  that,  as  it  is  desirable,  for  the  sake 
of  the  effect  upon  the  mind,  that  the  roof  should  be  visible,  so 
the  best  and  most  natural  form  of  roof  in  the  north  is  that 
which  will  render  it  most  visible,  namely,  the  steep  gable  ; the 
best  and  most  natural,  I say,  because  this  form  not  only  throws 
off  snow  and  rain  most  completely,  and  dries  fastest,  but  ob- 
tains the  greatest  interior  space  within  walls  of  a given  height, 
removes  the  heat  of  the  sun  most  effectually  from  the  upper 
rooms,  and  affords  most  space  for  ventilation. 

You  have  then,  observe,  two  great  principles,  as  far  as  north- 
ern architecture  is  concerned  ; first,  that  the  pointed  arch  is 
to  be  the  means  by  which  the  weight  of  the  wall  or  roof  is  to 
be  sustained  ; secondly,  that  the  steep  gable  is  the  form  most 
proper  for  the  roof  itself.  And  now  observe  this  most  inter- 
esting fact,  that  all  the  loveliest  Gothic  architecture  in  the 
world  is  based  on  the  group  of  lines  composed  of  the  pointed 
arch  and  the  gable.  If  you  look  at  the  beautiful  apse  of  Amiens 
Cathedral — a work  justly  celebrated  over  all  Europe — you  will 
find  it  formed  merely  of  a series  of  windows  surmounted  by 
pure  gables  of  open  work.  If  you  look  at  the  transept  porches 
of  Bouen,  or  at  the  great  and  celebrated  porch  of  the  cathedral 


PLATE  V.— (Page  235  -¥oL  V,} 
Mediae  vat.  Tv'bbet. 


AND  PAINTING. 


235 


of  Rheims,  or  at  that  of  Strasbourg,  Bayeux,  Amiens,  or  Pe« 
terborough,  still  you  will  see  that  these  lovely  compositions  are 
nothing  more  than  richly  decorated  forms  of  gable  over  pointed 
arch.  But  more  than  this,  you  must  be  all  well  aware  how 
fond  our  best  architectural  artists  are  of  the  street  effects  of 
foreign  cities  ; and  even  those  now  present  who  have  not  per- 
sonally visited  any  of  the  continental  towns  must  remember, 
I should  think,  some  of  the  many  interesting  drawings  by  Mr. 
Prout,  Mr.  Nash,  and  other  excellent  draughtsmen,  which  have 
for  many  years  adorned  our  exhibitions.  Now,  the  principal 
charm  of  all  those  continental  street  effects  is  dependent  on 
the  houses  having  high-pitched  gable  roofs.  In  the  Nether- 
lands and  Northern  France,  where  the  material  for  building  is 
brick  or  stone,  the  fronts  of  the  stone  gables  are  raised  above 
the  roofs,  and  you  have  magnificent  and  grotesque  ranges  of 
steps  or  curves  decorated  with  various  ornaments,  succeeding 
one  another  in  endless  perspective  along  the  streets  of  Antwerp, 
Ghent,  or  Brussels.  In  Picardy  and  Normandy,  again,  and 
many  towns  of  Germany,  where  the  material  for  building  is 
principally  wood,  the  roof  is  made  to  project  over  the  gables, 
fringed  with  a beautifully  carved  cornice,  and  casting  a broad 
shadow  down  the  house  front.  This  is  principally  seen  at  Abbe- 
ville, Rouen,  Lisieux,  and  others  of  the  older  towns  of  France. 
But,  in  all  cases,  the  effect  of  the  whole  street  depends  on  the 
prominence  of  the  gables ; not  only  of  the  fronts  towards  the 
streets,  but  of  the  sides  also,  set  with  small  garret  or  dormer 
windows,  each  of  the  most  fantastic  and  beautiful  form,  and 
crowned  with  a little  spire  or  pinnacle.  Wherever  there  is  a 
little  winding  stair,  or  projecting  bow  window,  or  any  other 
irregularity  of  form,  the  steep  ridges  shoot  into  turrets  and 
small  spires,  as  in  Jig.  8.*,  each  in  its  turn  crowned  by  a fan- 
tastic  ornament,  covered  with  curiously  shaped  slates  or  shin- 
gles, or  crested  with  long  fringes  of  rich  ironwork,  so  that,  seen 
from  above  and  from  a distance,  the  intricate  grouping  of  the 
roofs  of  a French  city  is  no  less  interesting  than  its  actual 
streets  ; and  in  the  streets  themselves,  the  masses  of  broad 
shadow  which  the  roofs  form  against  the  sky,  are  a most  im« 
* This  figure  is  copied  from  Prout. 


236 


LECTURES  ON  ARCHITECTURE 


portant  background  to  the  bright  and  sculptured  surfaces  of 
the  walls. 

Finally,  I need  not  remind  you  of  the  effect  upon  the 
northern  mind  which  has  always  been  produced  by  the  heaven- 
pointing  spire,  nor  of  the  theory  which  has  been  founded 
upon  it  of  the  general  meaning  of  Gothic  Architecture  as  ex- 
pressive of  religious  aspiration.  In  a few  minutes,  you  may 
ascertain  the  exact  value  of  that  theory,  and  the  degree  in 
which  it  is  true. 

The  first  tower  of  which  we  hear  as  built  upon  the  earth, 
was  certainly  built  in  a species  of  aspiration  ; but  I do  not 
suppose  that  any  one  here  will  think  it  was  a religious  one. 
“ Go  to  now.  Let  us  build  a tower  whose  top  may  reach  un- 
to Heaven.”  From  that  day  to  this,  whenever  men  have  be- 
come skilful  architects  at  all,  there  has  been  a tendency  in 
them  to  build  high  ; not  in  any  religious  feeling,  but  in  mere 
exuberance  of  spirit  and  power — as  they  dance  or  sing — with 
a certain  mingling  of  vanity — like  the  feeling  in  which  a child 
builds  a tower  of  cards  ; and,  in  nobler  instances,  with  also  a 
strong  sense  of,  and  delight  in  the  majesty,  height,  and 
strength  of  the  building  itself,  such  as  we  have  in  that  of  a 
lofty  tree  or  a peaked  mountain.  Add  to  this  instinct  the  fre- 
quent necessity  of  points  of  elevation  for  watch-towers,  or  of 
points  of  offence,  as  in  towers  built  on  the  ramparts  of  cities, 
and,  finally,  the  need  of  elevations  for  the  transmission  of 
sound,  as  in  the  Turkish  minaret  and  Christian  belfry,  and 
you  have,  I think,  a sufficient  explanation  of  the  tower-build- 
ing of  the  wTorld  in  general.  Look  through  your  Bibles  only, 
and  collect  the  various  expressions  with  reference  to  tower- 
building there,  and  you  will  have  a very  complete  idea  of  the 
spirit  in  w'hich  it  is  for  the  most  part  undertaken.  You  begin 
with  that  of  Babel ; then  you  remember  Gideon  beating  down 
the  Tower  of  Penuel,  in  order  more  completely  to  humble  the 
pride  of  the  men  of  the  city ; you  remember  the  defence  of 
the  tower  of  Shechem  against  Abimelech,  and  the  death  of 
Abimelech  by  the  casting  of  a stone  from  it  by  a woman’s 
hand  ; you  recollect  the  husbandman  building  a tower  in  his 
vineyard,  and  the  beautiful  expressions  in  Solomon’s  Song—' 


AND  PAINTING. 


237 


u The  Tower  of  Lebanon,  which  looketli  towards  Damascus  ; ” 
“lam  a wall,  and  my  breasts  like  towers  — you  recollect  the 
Psalmist’s  expressions  of  love  and  delight,  “Go  ye  round 
about  Jerusalem  ; tell  the  townrs  thereof  : mark  ye  wTell  her 
bulwarks ; consider  her  palaces,  that  ye  may  tell  it  to  the  gen- 
eration following.”  You  see  in  all  these  cases  how  completely 
the  tower  is  a subject  of  human  pride,  or  delight,  or  defence, 
not  in  anywise  associated  with  religious  sentiment ; the  tow'ers 
; of  Jerusalem  being  named  in  the  same  sentence,  not  with  her 
temple,  but  with  her  bulwarks  and  palaces.  And  thus,  when 
the  tower  is  in  reality  connected  with  a place  of  worship,  it 
was  generally  done  to  add  to  its  magnificence,  but  not  to  add 
to  its  religious  expression.  And  over  the  whole  of  the  wTorld, 

| you-  have  various  species  of  elevated  buildings,  the  Egyptian 
pyramid,  the  Indian  and  Chinese  pagoda,  the  Turkish  mina- 
ret, and  the  Christian  belfry — all  of  them  raised  either  to 
make  a show  from  a distance,  or  to  cry  from,  or  swing  bells 
in,  or  hang  them  round,  or  for  some  other  very  human  reason. 
Thus,  when  the  good  people  of  Beauvais  were  building  their 
cathedral,  that  of  Amiens,  then  just  completed,  had  excited 
the  admiration  of  all  France,  and  the  people  of  Beauvais,  in 
i their  jealousy  and  determination  to  beat  the  people  of  Amiens, 
j set  to  work  to  build  a tower  to  their  own  cathedral  as  high  as 
I they  possibly  could.  They  built  it  so  high  that  it  tumbled 
I down,  and  they  were  never  able  to  finish  their  cathedral  at  all 
— it  stands  a wreck  to  this  day.  But  you  will  not,  I should 
think,  imagine  this  to  have  been  done  in  heavenward  aspira- 

I tion.  Mind,  however,  I don’t  blame  the  people  of  Beauvais, 
except  for  their  bad  building.  I think  their  desire  to  beat 
the  citizens  of  Amiens  a most  amiable  weakness,  and  only  wish 

I I could  see  the  citizens  of  Edinburgh  and  Glasgow  inflamed 
J with  the  same  emulation,  building  Gothic  towers  * instead  of 
manufactory  chimneys  ; only  do  not  confound  a feeling  which, 
though  healthy  and  right,  may  be  nearly  analogous  to  that  in 

* I did  not,  at  the  time  of  the  delivery  of  these  lectures,  know  how 
many  Gothic  towers  the  worthy  Glaswegians  have  lately  built ; that  of 
St.  Peter’s,  in  particular,  being  a most  meritorious  effort. 


238 


LECTURES  ON  ARCHITECTURE 


which  you  play  a cricket-match,  with  any  feeling  allied  to  youf 
hope  of  heaven. 

Such  being  the  state  of  the  case  with  respect  to  tower* 
building  in  general,  let  me  follow  for  a few  minutes  the 
changes  which  occur  in  the  towers  of  northern  and  southern 
architects. 

Many  of  us  are  familiar  with  the  ordinary  form  of  the  Ital- 
ian bell- tower  or  campanile.  From  the  eighth  century  to  the 
thirteenth  there  was  little  change  in  that  form  : * four-square, 
rising  high  and  without  tapering  into  the  air,  story  above 
story,  they  stood  like  giants  in  the  quiet  fields  beside  the  piles 
of  the  basilica  or  the  Lombardic  church,  in  this  form  (fig.  9. ), 
tiled  at  the  top  in  a flat  gable,  with  open  arches  below,  and 
fewer  and  fewer  arches  on  each  inferior  story,  down  to  the 
bottom.  It  is  worth  while  noting  the  difference  in  form  be- 
tween these  and  the  towers  built  for  military  service.  The 
latter  were  built  as  in  fig.  10.,  projecting  vigorously  at  the  top 
over  a series  of  brackets  or  machicolations,  with  very  small 
windows,  and  no  decoration  below.  Such  towers  as  these 
were  attached  to  every  important  palace  in  the  cities  of  Italy, 
and  stood  in  great  circles — troops  of  towers — around  their 
external  w*alis : their  ruins  still  frown  along  the  crests  of  every 
promontory  of  the  Apennines,  and  are  seen  from  far  away  in 
the  great  Lombardic  plain,  from  distances  of  half-a-day?s  jour- 
ney, dark  against  the  amber  sky  of  the  horizon.  These  are 
of  course  now  built  no  more,  the  changed  methods  of  modern 
warfare  having  cast  them  into  entire  disuse ; but  the  belfry 
or  campanile  has  had  a very  different  influence  on  European 
architecture.  Its  form  in  the  plains  of  Italy  and  South  France 
being  that  just  shown  you,  the  moment  we  enter  the  valleys 
of  the  Alps,  where  there  is  snow  to  be  sustained,  we  find  its 
form  of  roof  altered  by  the  substitution  of  a steep  gable  for  a 
flat  one.  f There  are  probably  few  in  the  room  who  have  not 

* There  is  a good  abstract  of  the  forms  of  the  Italian  campanile,  by 
Mr.  Papworth,  in  the  Journal  of  the  Archaeological  Institute,  March, 
1850. 

f The  form  establishes  itself  afterwards  in  the  plains,  in  sympathy 
with  other  Gothic  conditions,  a£  in  the  campanile  of  St.  Mark’s  at  Venice 


Mg.  10 


Fig.  9. 


PLATE  VI.  — (Page  238— Vol.  V.) 
Lombardic  Towers 


AND  PAINTING. 


239 


been  in  some  parts  of  South  Switzerland,  and  who  do  not  re- 
member the  beautiful  effect  of  the  grey  mountain  churches, 
many  of  them  hardly  changed  since  the  tenth  and  eleventh 
centuries,  whose  pointed  towers  stand  up  through  the  green 
level  of  the  vines,  or  crown  the  jutting  rocks  that  border  the 
valley.  From  this  form  to  the  true  spire,  the  change  is  slight, 
and  consists  in  little  more  than  various  decoration,  generally 
in  putting  small  pinnacles  at  the  angles,  and  piercing  the  cen- 
tral pyramid  with  traceried  windows,  sometimes,  as  at  Fri- 
bourg and  Burgos,  throwing  it  into  tracery  altogether : but 
to  do  this  is  invariably  the  sign  of  a vicious  style,  as  it  takes 
away  from  the  spire  its  character  of  a true  roof,  and  turns  it 
nearly  into  an  ornamental  excrescence.  At  Antwerp  and  Brus- 
sels, the  celebrated  towers  (one,  observe,  ecclesiastical,  be- 
ing the  tower  of  the  cathedral,  and  the  other  secular),  are 
formed  by  successions  of  diminishing  towers,  set  one  above 
the  other,  and  each  supported  by  buttresses  thrown  to  the 
angles  of  the  one  beneath.  At  the  English  cathedrals  of  Lich- 
field and  Salisbury,  the  spire  is  seen  in  great  purity,  only 
decorated  by  sculpture  ; but  I am  aware  of  no  example  so 
striking  in  its  entire  simplicity  as  that  of  the  towers  of  the 
cathedral  of  Coutances,  in  Normandy.  There  is  a dispute  be- 
tween French  and  English  antiquaries  as  to  the  date  of  the 
building,  the  English  being  unwilling  to  admit  its  complete 
priority  to  all  their  own  Gothic.  I have  no  doubt  of  this  pri- 
ority myself  ; and  I hope  that  the  time  will  soon  come  when 
men  will  cease  to  confound  vanity  with  patriotism,  and  will 
think  the  honour  of  their  nation  more  advanced  by  their  own 
sincerity  and  courtesy,  than  by  claims,  however  learnedly  con- 
tested, to  the  invention  of  pinnacles  and  arches.  I believe  the 
French  nation  was,  in  the  twelfth  and  thirteenth  centuries,  the 
greatest  in  the  world  ; and  that  the  French  not  only  invented 
Gothic  architecture,  but  carried  it  to  a perfection  which  no 
other  nation  has  approached,  then  or  since  : but,  however  this 
may  be,  there  can  be  no  doubt  that  the  towers  of  Coutances, 
if  not  the  earliest,  are  among  the  very  earliest,  examples  of 
the  fully  developed  spire.  I have  drawn  one  of  them  care- 
fully for  you  (fig,  11.),  and  you  will  see  immediately  that  they 


240 


LECTURES  ON  ARCHITECTURE 


are  literally  domestic  roofs,  with  garret  windows,  executed  on 
a large  scale,  and  in  stone.  Their  only  ornament  is  a kind  of 
scaly  mail,  which  is  nothing  more  than  the  copying  in  stone  of 
the  common  wooden  shingles  of  the  house-roof ; and  their 
security  is  provided  for  by  strong  gabled  dormer  windows,  oi 
massy  masonry,  which,  though  supported  on  detached  shafts, 
have  weight  enough  completely  to  balance  the  lateral  thrusts 
of  the  spires. 

Nothing  can  surpass  the  boldness  or  the  simplicity  of  the 
plan  ; and  yet,  in  spite  of  this  simplicity,  the  clear  detaching 
of  the  shafts  from  the  slope  of  the  spire,  and  their  great 
height,  strengthened  by  rude  cross-bars  of  stone,  carried  back 
to  the  wall  behind,  occasions  so  great  a complexity  and  play 
of  cast  shadows,  that  I remember  no  architectural  composi- 
tion of  which  the  aspect  is  so  completely  varied  at  different 
hours  of  the  day.*  But  the  main  thing  I wish  you  to  observe 
is,  the  complete  domesticity  of  the  work  ; the  evident  treat- 
ment of  the  church  spire  merely  as  a magnified  house-roof ; 
and  the  proof  herein  of  the  great  truth  of  which  I have  been 
endeavouring  to  persuade  you,  that  all  good  architecture  rises 
out  of  good  and  simple  domestic  work ; and  that,  therefore, 
before  you  attempt  to  build  great  churches  and  palaces,  you 
must  build  good  house  doors  and  garret  windows.  Nor  is 
the  spire  the  only  ecclesiastical  form  deducible  from  domestic 
architecture.  The  spires  of  Trance  and  Germany  are  associ- 
ated with  other  towers,  even  simpler  and  more  straightforward 
in  confession  of  their  nature,  in  which,  though  the  walls  of 
the  tower  are  covered  with  sculpture,  there  is  an  ordinary 
ridged  gable  roof  on  the  top.  The  finest  example  I know  of 
this  kind  of  tower,  is  that  on  the  northwest  angle  of  Bouen 
Cathedral  {fig.  12.) ; but  they  occur  in  multitudes  in  the 
idder  towns  of  Germany ; and  the  backgrounds  of  Albert 
Purer  are  full  of  them,  and  owe  to  them  a great  part  of  their 
interest : all  these  great  and  magnificent  masses  of  architect- 
ure being  repeated  on  a smaller  scale  by  the  little  turret 
roofs  and  pinnacles  of  every  house  in  the  town  ; and  the 
whole  system  of  them  being  expressive,  not  by  any  means  of 

* The  sketch  was  made  about  10  o’clock  on  a September  morning. 


Fig.  11. 


Fig.  12. 


PLATE  VII.— (Page  240— Vol.  V.) 
Spires  at  Coutances  and  Rouen. 


AND  FAINTING. 


241 


religious  feeling,*  but  merely  of  joyfulness  and  exhilaration 
of  spirit  in  the  inhabitants  of  such  cities,  leading  them  to 
throw  their  roofs  high  into  the  sky,  and  therefore  giving  to 
the  style  of  architecture  with  which  these  grotesque  roofs  are 
associated,  a certain  charm  like  that  of  cheerfulness  in  the 
human  face  ; besides  a power  of  interesting  the  beholder 
which  is  testified,  not  only  by  the  artist  in  his  constant  search 
after  such  forms  as  the  elements  of  his  landscape,  but  by 
every  phrase  of  our  language  and  literature  bearing  on  such 

* Among  the  various  modes  in  which  the  architects,  against  whose 
practice  my  writings  are  directed,  have  endeavoured  to  oppose  them,  no 
charge  has  been  made  more  frequently  than  that  of  their  self-contradic- 
tion ; the  fact  being,  that  there  are  few  people  in  the  world  who  are 
capable  of  seeing  the  two  sides  of  any  subject,  or  of  conceiving  how  the 
statements  of  its  opposite  aspects  can  possibly  be  reconcileable.  For  in- 
stance, in  a recent  review,  though  for  the  most  part  both  fair  and  in- 
telligent. it  is  remarked,  on  this  very  subject  of  the  domestic  origin  of 
the  northern  Gothic,  that  “ Mr.  Ruskin  is  evidently  possessed  by  a fixed 
idea,  that  the  Venetian  architects  were  devout  men,  and  that  their  de- 
votion was  expressed  in  their  buildings  ; while  he  will  not  allow  our 
own  cathedrals  to  have  been  built  by  any  but  worldly  men,  who  had 
no  thoughts  of  heaven,  but  only  vague  ideas  of  keeping  out  of  hell,  by 
erecting  costly  places  of  worship. ’’  If  this  writer  had  compared  the 
two  passages  with  the  care  which  such  a subject  necessarily  demands,  he 
would  have  found  that  I was  not  opposing  Venetian  to  English  piety  ; 
but  that  in  the  one  case  I was  speaking  of  the  spirit  manifested  in  the 
entire  architecture  of  the  nation,  and  in  the  other  of  occasional  efforts 
of  superstition  as  distinguished  from  that  spirit ; and,  farther,  that  in 
the  one  case,  I was  speaking  of  decorative  features  which  are  ordinarily 
the  results  of  feeling,  in  the  other  of  structural  features,  which  are  or- 
dinarily the  results  of  necessity  or  convenience.  Thus  it  is  rational  and 
just  that  we  should  attribute  the  decoration  of  the  arches  of  St.  Mark’s 
with  scriptural  mosaics  to  a religious  sentiment ; but  it  would  be  a 
strange  absurdity  to  regard  as  an  effort  of  piety  the  invention  of  the 
form  of  the  arch  itself,  of  which  one  of  the  earliest  and  most  perfect 
instances  is  in  the  Cloaca  Maxima.  And  thus  in  the  case  of  spires  and 
towers,  it  is  just  to  ascribe  to  the  devotion  of  their  designers  that 
dignity  which  was  bestowed  upon  forms  derived  from  the  simplest 
domestic  buildings  ; but  it  is  ridiculous  to  attribute  any  great  refinement 
of  religious  feeling,  or  height  of  religious  aspiration,  to  those  who  fun 
wished  the  funds  for  the  erection  of  the  loveliest  tower  in  North  Frano% 
by  paying  for  permission  to  eat  butter  in  Lent. 


242 


LECTURES  ON  ARCHITECTURE 


topics.  Have  not  these  words,  Pinnacle,  Turret,  Belfry, 
Spire,  Tower,  a pleasant  sound  in  all  your  ears  ? I do  not 
speak  of  your  scenery,  I do  not  ask  you  how  much  you  feel 
that  it  owes  to  the  grey  battlements  that  frown  through  the 
woods  of  Craig  Millar,  to  the  pointed  turrets  that  flank  the 
front  of  Holyrood,  or  to  the  massy  keeps  of  your  Crichtoun 
and  Bor th wick  and  other  border  towers.  But  look  merely 
through  your  poetry  and  romances ; take  away  out  of  your 
border  ballads  the  word  tower  wherever  it  occurs,  and  the 
ideas  connected  with  it,  and  what  will  become  of  the  ballads  ? 
See  how  Sir  Walter  Scott  cannot  even  get  through  a descrip- 
tion of  Highland  scenery  without  help  from  the  idea : — 

“Each  purple  peak,  each  flinty  spire , 

Was  bathed  in  floods  of  living  fire.” 

Take  away  from  Scott’s  romances  the  word  and  idea  turret , 
and  see  how  much  you  would  lose.  Suppose,  for  instance, 
when  young  Osbaldistone  is  leaving  Osbaldistone  Hall,  in- 
stead of  saying  “The  old  clock  struck  two  from  a turret  ad- 
joining my  bedchamber,”  he  had  said,  “The  old  clock  struck 
two  from  the  landing  at  the  top  of  the  stair,”  what  would  be- 
come of  the  passage  ? And  can  you  really  suppose  that  wliafc 
has  so  much  power  over  you  in  words  has  no  power  over  you 
in  reality  ? Do  you  think  there  is  any  group  of  words  which 
would  thus  interest  you,  when  the  things  expressed  by  them 
are  uninteresting  ? For  instance,  you  know  that,  for  an  im- 
mense time  back,  all  your  public  buildings  have  been  built 
with  a row  of  pillars  supporting  a triangular  thing  called  a 
pediment.  You  see  this  form  every  day  in  your  banks  and 
clubhouses,  and  churches  and  chapels  ; you  are  told  that  it  is 
the  perfection  of  architectural  beauty  ; and  yet  suppose  Sir 
Walter  Scott,  instead  of  writing,  “Each  purple  peak,  each 
flinty  spire/  had  written,  “ Each  purple  peak,  each  flinty 
4 pediment.’  ” * Would  you  have  thought  the  poem  improved  ? 

* It  has  been  objected  to  this  comparison  that  the  form  of  the  pedi 
ment  does  not  properly  represent  that  of  the  rocks  of  the  Trosachs 
The  objection  is  utterly  futile,  for  there  is  not  a single  spire  or  pinnacle 
from  one  end  of  the  Trosachs  to  the  other.  All  their  rocks  are  heavily 


AND  PAINTING. 


243 


And  if  not,  why  would  it  be  spoiled  ? Simply  because  the 
idea  is  no  longer  of  any  value  to  you  ; the  thing  spoken  of  is 
a nonentity. 

These  pediments,  and  stylobates,  and  architraves  never  ex- 
cited a siugle  pleasurable  feeling  in  you — never  will,  to  the 
end  of  time.  They  are  evermore  dead,  lifeless,  and  useless, 
in  art  as  in  poetry,  and  though  you  built  as  many  of  them  as 
there  are  slates  on  your  house-roofs,  you  will  never  care  for 
them.  They  will  only  remain  to  later  ages  as  monuments  of 
the  patience  and  pliability  with  which  the  people  of  the  nine- 
teenth century  sacrificed  their  feelings  to  fashions,  and  their  in- 
tellects to  forms.  But  on  the  other  hand,  that  strange  and 
thrilling  interest  with  which  such  words  strike  you  as  are  in 
anywise  connected  with  Gothic  architecture — as  for  instance, 
Vault,  Arch,  Spire,  Pinnacle,  Battlement,  Barbican,  Porch,  and 
myriads  of  such  others,  words  everlastingly  poetical  and  pow- 
erful whenever  they  occur — is  a most  true  and  certain  index 
that  the  things  themselves  are  delightful  to  you,  and  will  ever 
continue  to  be  so.  Believe  me,  you  do  indeed  love  these 
things,  so  far  as  you  care  about  art  at  all,  so  far  as  you  are 
not  ashamed  to  confess  what  you  feel  about  them.  In  your 
public  capacities,  as  bank  directors,  and  charity  overseers,  and 
administrators  of  this  and  that  other  undertaking  or  institution, 
you  cannot  express  your  feelings  at  all.  You  form  commit- 
tees to  decide  upon  the  style  of  the  new  building,  and  as  you 
have  never  been  in  the  habit  of  trusting  to  your  own  taste  in 
such  matters,  you  inquire  who  is  the  most  celebrated,  that  is 
to  say,  the  most  employed  architect  of  the  day.  And  you 
send  for  the  great  Mr.  Blank,  and  the  Great  Blank  sends  you 

rounded,  and  the  introduction  of  the  word  “ spire”  is  a piece  of  in- 
accuracy in  description,  ventured  merely  for  the  sake  of  the  Gothic  image , 
Farther:  it  has  been  said  that  if  I had  substituted  the  word  “ gable,” 
it  would  have  spoiled  the  line  just  as  much  as  the  word  “ pediment,” 
though  “gable”  is  a Gothic  word.  Of  course  it  would;  but  why? 
Because  “gable  ” is  a term  of  vulgar  domestic  architecture,  and  there' 
fore  destructive  of  the  tone  of  the  heroic  description  ; whereas  “pedi- 
ment” and  “spire”  are  precisely  correlative  terms,  being  each  tha 
crowning  feature  in  ecclesiastical  edifices,  and  the  comparison  of  tlieil 
effects  in  the  verse  is  therefore  absolutely  accurate,  logical,  and  just. 


244 


LECTURES  ON  ARCHITECTURE 


a plan  of  a great  long  marble  box  with  half-a-dozen  pillars  at 
one  end  of  it,  and  the  same  at  the  other  ; and  yon  look  at  the 
Great  Blank’s  great  plan  in  a grave  manner,  and  yon  daresay 
it  will  be  very  handsome  ; and  yon  ask  the  Great  Blank  what 
sort  of  a blank  cheque  must  be  filled  up  before  the  great  plan 
can  be  realized,  and  you  subscribe  in  a generous  “ burst  of 
confidence  ” whatever  is  wanted ; and  when  it  is  all  done,  and 
the  great  white  marble  box  is  set  up  in  your  streets,  you  con- 
template it,  not  knowing  what  to  make  of  it  exactly,  but  hop- 
ing it  is  all  right ; and  then  there  is  a dinner  given  to  the 
Great  Blank,  and  the  morning  Papers  say  that  the  new  and 
handsome  building,  erected  by  the  great  Mr.  Blank,  is  one  of 
Mr.  Blank’s  happiest  efforts,  and  reflects  the  greatest  credit 
upon  the  intelligent  inhabitants  of  the  city  of  so  and  so  ; 
and  the  building  keeps  the  rain  out  as  well  as  another,  and 
you  remain  in  a placid  state  of  impoverished  satisfaction 
therewith  ; but  as  for  having  any  real  pleasure  out  of  it,  you 
never  hoped  for  such  a thing.  If  you  really  make  up  a party 
of  pleasure,  and  get  rid  of  the  forms  and  fashion  of  public 
propriety  for  an  hour  or  two,  where  do  you  go  for  it  ? Whera 
do  you  go  to  eat  strawberries  and  cream  ? To  Koslin  Chapel, 
I believe  ; not  to  the  portico  of  the  last-built  institution. 
What  do  you  see  your  children  doing,  obeying  their  own  nat- 
ural and  true  instincts  ? What  are  your  daughters  drawing 
upon  their  card-board  screens  as  soon  as  they  can  use  a pencil  ? 
Not  Parthenon  fronts,  I think,  but  the  ruins  of  Melrose  Abbey, 
or  Linlithgow  Palace,  or  Lochleven  Castle,  their  own  pure 
Scotch  hearts  leading  them  straight  to  the  right  things,  in 
spite  of  all  that  they  are  told  to  the  contrary.  You  perhaps 
call  this  romantic,  and  youthful,  and  foolish.  I am  pressed 
for  time  now,  and  I cannot  ask  you  to  consider  the  meaning 
of  the  word  “Romance.”  I will  do  that,  if  you  please,  in 
next  lecture,  for  it  is  a word  of  greater  weight  and  authority 
than  we  commonly  believe.  In  the  meantime,  I will  en 
deavour,  lastR,  to  show  you,  not  the  romantic,  but  the  plain 
and  practical  conclusions  which  should  follow  from  the  fact? 
I have  laid  before  you. 

I have  endeavoured  briefly  to  point  out  to  you  the  pro* 


and  painting . 


245 


priety  and  naturalness  of  the  two  great  Gothic  forms,  the 
pointed  arch  and  gable  roof.  I wish  now  to  tell  you  in  what 
way  they  ought  to  be  introduced  into  modern  domestic  archi- 
tecture. 

You  will  all  admit  that  there  is  neither  romance  nor  com- 
fort in  waiting  at  your  own  or  at  any  one  else’s  door  on  a 
windy  and  rainy  day,  till  the  servant  comes  from  the  end  of 
the  house  to  open  it.  You  all  know  the  critical  nature  of 
that  opening — the  drift  of  wind  into  the  passage,  the  impossi- 
bility of  putting  down  the  umbrella  at  the  proper  moment 
without  getting  a cupful  of  waiter  dropped  down  the  back  of 
your  neck  from  the  top  of  the  doorway  ; and  you  know  how 
little  these  inconveniences  are  abated  by  the  common  Greek 
portico  at  the  top  of  the  steps.  You  know  how  the  east  winds 
blow  through  those  unlucky  couples  of  pillars,  which  are  all 
that  your  architects  find  consistent  with  due  observance  of 
the  Doric  order.  Then,  away  with  these  absurdities ; and 
the  next  house  you  build,  insist  upon  having  the  pure  old 
Gothic  porch,  walled  in  on  both  sides,  with  its  pointed  arch 
entrance  and  gable  roof  above.  Under  that,  you  can  put 
down  your  umbrella  at  your  leisure,  and,  if  you  will,  stop  a 
moment  to  talk  with  your  friend  as  you  give  him  the  parting 
shake  of  the  hand.  And  if  now  and  then  a wayfarer  found 
a moment’s  rest  on  a stone  seat  on  each  side  of  it,  I believe 
you  would  find  the  insides  of  your  houses  not  one  whit  the 
less  comfortable  ; and,  if  you  answer  me,  that  were  such  ref- 
uges built  in  the  open  streets,  they  would  become  mere  nests 
of  filthy  vagrants,  I reply  that  I do  not  despair  of  such  a 
change  in  the  administration  of  the  poor  laws  of  this  country, 
as  shall  no  longer  leave  any  of  our  fellow-creatures  in  a state 
in  which  they  wrould  pollute  the  steps  of  our  houses  by  resU 
iug  upon  them  for  a night.  But  if  not,  the  command  to  all 
of  us  is  strict  and  straight,  “When  thou  seest  the  naked, 
that  thou  cover  him,  and  that  thou  bring  the  poor  that  are 
cast  out  to  thy  house”  * Not  to  the  workhouse,  observe,  but 
to  thy  house  : and  I say  it  would  be  better  a thousand-fold, 
that  our  doors  should  be  beset  by  the  poor  day  by  day,  than 
* Isai.  lviii.  7. 


246 


LECTURES  ON  ARCHITECTURE 


that  it  should  be  written  of  any  one  of  us,  “ They  reap  every 
one  his  corn  in  the  field,  and  they  gather  the  vintage  of  the 
wicked.  They  cause  the  naked  to  lodge  without  shelter,  that 
they  have  no  covering  in  the  cold.  They  are  wet  with  the 
showers  of  the  mountains,  and  embrace  the  rock,  for  want  of 
a shelter.”  * 

This,  then,  is  the  first  use  to  which  your  pointed  arches 
and  gable  roofs  are  to  be  put.  The  second  is  of  more  per- 
sonal pleasureableness.  You  surely  must  all  of  you  feel  and 
admit  the  delightfulness  of  a bow  window  ; I can  hardly  fancy 
a room  can  be  perfect  without  one.  Now  you  have  nothing 
to  do  but  to  resolve  that  every  one  of  your  principal  rooms 
shall  have  a bow  window,  either  large  or  small.  Sustain  the 
projection  of  it  on  a bracket,  crown  it  above  with  a little 
peaked  roof,  and  give  a massy  piece  of  stone  sculpture  to  the 
pointed  arch  in  each  of  its  casements,  and  you  will  have  as 
inexhaustible  a source  of  quaint  richness  in  your  street  archi- 
tecture, as  of  additional  comfort  and  delight  in  the  interiors 
of  your  rooms. 

Thirdly  ; as  respects  windows  which  do  not  project.  You 
will  find  that  the  proposal  to  build  them  with  pointed  arches 
is  met  by  an  objection  on  the  part  of  your  architects,  that  you 
cannot  fit  them  with  comfortable  sashes.  I beg  leave  to  tell 
you  that  such  an  objection  is  utterly  futile  and  ridiculous.  I 
have  lived  for  months  in  Gothic  palaces,  with  pointed  win- 
dows of  the  most  complicated  forms,  fitted  with  modern 
sashes  ; and  with  the  most  perfect  comfort.  But  granting 
that  the  objection  were  a true  one — and  I suppose  it  is  true 
to  just  this  extent,  that  it  may  cost  some  few  shillings  more 
per  window  in  the  first  instance  to  set  the  fittings  to  a pointed 
arch  than  to  a square  one — there  is  not  the  smallest  necessity 
for  the  aperture  of  the  window  being  of  the  pointed  shape. 
Make  the  uppermost  or  bearing  arch  pointed  only,  and  make 
the  top  of  the  window  square,  filling  the  interval  with  a stone 
shield,  and  you  may  have  a perfect  school  of  architecture,  not 
only  consistent  with,  but  eminently  conducive  to,  every  com- 
fort of  your  daily  life.  The  window  in  Oakham  Castle  (fig.  2.) 

* Job,  xxiv.  6—  8. 


AND  PAINTING. 


247 


is  an  example  of  such  a form  as  actually  employed  in  the  thir« 
teenth  century  ; and  I shall  have  to  notice  another  in  the  course 
of  next  lecture.  Meanwhile,  I have  but  one  word  to  say  in 
conclusion.  Whatever  has  been  advanced  in  the  course  of 
this  evening,  has  rested  on  the  assumption  that  all  architect* 
ure  was  to  be  of  brick  and  stone  ; and  may  meet  with  some 
hesitation  in  its  acceptance,  on  account  of  the  probable  use  of 
iron,  glass,  and  such  other  materials  in  our  future  edifices. 
I cannot  now  enter  into  any  statement  of  the  possible  uses  of 
iron  or  glass,  but  I will  give  you  one  reason,  which  I think 
will  weigh  strongly  with  most  here,  why  it  is  not  likely  that 
they  will  ever  become  important  elements  in  architectural 
effect.  I know  that  I am  speaking  to  a company  of  philoso- 
phers, but  you  are  not  philosophers  of  the  kind  who  suppose 
that  the  Bible  is  a superannuated  book ; neither  are  you  of 
those  who  think  the  Bible  is  dishonoured  by  being  referred 
to  for  judgment  in  small  matters.  The  very  divinity  of  the 
Book  seems  to  me,  on  the  contrary,  to  justify  us  in  referring 
every  thing  to  it,  with  respect  to  which  any  conclusion  can  be 
gathered  from  its  pages.  Assuming  then  that  the  Bible  is 
neither  superannuated  now,  nor  ever  likely  to  be  so,  it  will 
follow  that  the  illustrations  which  the  Bible  employs  are  likely 
to  be  clear  and  intelligible  illustrations  to  the  end  of  time.  J 
do  not  mean  that  every  thing  spoken  of  in  the  Bible  histories 
must  continue  to  endure  for  all  time,  but  that  the  things 
which  the  Bible  uses  for  illustration  of  eternal  truths  are  likely 
to  remain  eternally  intelligible  illustrations.  Now  I find  that 
iron  architecture  is  indeed  spoken  of  in  the  Bible.  You 
know  how  it  is  said  to  Jeremiah,  “ Behold,  I have  made  thee 
this  day  a defenced  city,  and  an  iron  pillar,  and  brazen  walls, 
against  the  whole  land.”  But  I do  not  find  that  iron  building 
is  ever  alluded  to  as  likely  to  become  familiar  to  the  minds  of 
men ; but,  on  the  contrary,  that  an  architecture  of  carved 
stone  is  continually  employed  as  a source  of  the  most  import- 
ant illustrations.  A simple  instance  must  occur  to  all  of  you 
at  once.  The  force  of  the  image  of  the  Corner  Stone,  as  used 
throughout  Scripture,  would  completely  be  lost,  if  the  Chris* 
tian  and  civilized  world  were  ever  extensively  to  employ  any 


248 


LECTURES  ON  ARCHITECTURE 


other  material  than  earth  and  rock  in  their  domestic  build* 
ings ; I firmly  believe  that  they  never  will ; but  that  as  tha 
laws  of  beauty  are  more  perfectly  established,  we  shall  be  con- 
tent still  to  build  as  our  forefathers  built,  and  still  to  receive 
the  same  great  lessons  which  such  building  is  calculated 
to  convey  ; of  which  one  is  indeed  never  to  be  forgotten. 
Among  the  questions  respecting  towers  which  wrere  laid  before 
you  to-night,  one  has  been  omitted  : “ What  man  is  there  of 
you  intending  to  build  a tower  that  sitteth  not  down  first  and 
counteth  the  cost,  whether  he  have  sufficient  to  finish  it  ? ” I 
have  pressed  upon  you,  this  evening,  the  building  of  domestic 
towers.  You  may  think  it  right  to  dismiss  the  subject  at 
once  from  your  thoughts  ; but  let  us  not  do  so,  without  con- 
sidering, each  of  us,  how  far  that  tower  has  been  built,  and 
how  truly  its  cost  has  been  counted. 


LECTURE  H. 

Before  proceeding  to  the  principal  subject  of  this  evening, 
I wish  to  anticipate  one  or  two  objections  which  may  arise  in 
your  minds  to  what  I must  lay  before  you.  It  may  perhaps 
have  been  felt  by  you  last  evening,  that  some  things  I pro- 
posed to  you  were  either  romantic  or  Utopian,  Let  us  think 
for  a few  moments  what  romance  and  Utopianism  mean. 

First,  romance.  In  consequence  of  the  many  absurd  fic- 
tions which  long  formed  the  elements  of  romance  writing,  the 
word  romance  is  sometimes  taken  as  synonymous  with  false- 
hood. Thus  the  French  talk  of  JDes  Romans , and  thus  the 
English  use  the  word  Romancing. 

But  in  this  sense  we  had  much  better  use  the  word  false- 
hood at  once.  It  is  far  plainer  and  clearer.  And  if  in  this 
sense  I put  anything  romantic  before  you,  pray  pay  no  atten 
tion  to  it,  or  to  me. 

In  the  second  place.  Because  young  people  are  particularly 
apt  to  indulge  in  reverie,  and  imaginative  pleasures,  and  to 
neglect  their  plain  and  practical  duties  the  word  romantic  has 
come  to  signify  weak,  foolish,  speculative,  unpractical,  un* 


AND  TAINTING . 


249 


principled.  In  all  these  cases  it  would  be  much  better  to  say 
weak,  foolish,  unpractical,  unprincipled.  The  words  are  clearer. 
If  in  this  sense,  also  I put  anything  romantic  before  you,  pray 
pay  no  attention  to  me. 

But  in  the  third  and  last  place.  The  real  and  proper  use 
of  the  word  romantic  is  simply  to  characterise  an  improbable 
or  unaccustomed  degree  of  beauty,  sublimity,  or  virtue.  For 
instance,  in  matters  of  history,  is  not  the  Retreat  of  the  Ten 
Thousand  romantic  ? Is  not  the  death  of  Leonidas  ? of  the 
Horatn  ? On  the  other  hand,  you  find  nothing  romantic, 
though  much  that  is  monstrous,  in  the  excesses  of  Tiberius 
or  Commodus.  So  again,  the  battle  of  Agincourt  is  romantic, 
and  of  Bannockburn,  simply  because  there  was  an  extraor- 
dinary display  of  human  virtue  in  both  those  battles.  But 
there  is  no  romance  in  the  battles  of  the  last  Italian  campaign, 
in  which  mere  feebleness  and  distrust  were  on  one  side,  mere 
physical  force  on  the  other.  And  even  in  fiction,  the  oppo- 
nents of  virtue,  in  order  to  be  romantic,  must  have  sublimity 
mingled  with  their  vice.  It  is  not  the  knave,  not  the  ruffian, 
that  are  romantic,  but  the  giant  and  the  dragon  ; and  these,' 
not  because  they  are  false,  but  because  they  are  majestic.  So 
again  as  to  beauty.  You  feel  that  armour  is  romantic  because 
it  is  a beautiful  dress,  and  you  are  not  used  to  it.  You  do  not 
feel  there  is  anything  romantic  in  the  paint  and  shells  of  a 
Sandwich  Islander,  for  these  are  not  beautiful. 

So,  then,  observe,  this  feeling  which  you  are  accustomed  to 
despise-— this  secret  and  poetical  enthusiasm  in  all  your  hearts, 
which,  as  practical  men,  you  try  to  restrain — is  indeed  one  of 
the  holiest  parts  of  your  being.  It  is  the  instinctive  delio-ht 
m,  and  admiration  for,  sublimity,  beauty,  and  virtue,  unusu- 
ady  manifested.  And  so  far  from  being  a dangerous  guide, 
it  is  the  truest  part  of  your  being.  It  is  even  truer  than  your 
consciences.  A mans  conscience  may  be  utterly  perverted  and 
led  astray  ; but  so  long  as  the  feelings  of  romance  endure 
within  us,  they  are  unerring— they  are  as  true  to  what  is  right 
and  lovely  as  the  needle  to  the  north  ; and  all  that  you  have 
to  do  is  to  add  to  the  enthusiastic  sentiment,  the*  majestic 
ludgment— to  mingle  prudence  and  foresight  with  imagination 


250  LECTURES  ON  ARCHITECTURE 

and  admiration,  and  you  liave  the  perfect  human  soul.  But 
the  great  evil  of  these  days  is  that  we  try  to  destroy  the  ro- 
mantic feeling,  instead  of  bridling  and  directing  it.  Mark 
what  Young  says  of  the  men  of  the  world  : 

“ They,  who  think  nought  so  strong  of  the  romance, 

So  rank  knight  errant,  as  a real  friend.” 

And  they  are  right.  True  friendship  is  romantic,  to  the 
men  of  the  world— true  affection  is  romantic — true  religion  is 
romantic  ; and  if  you  were  to  ask  me  who  of  all  powerful  and 
popular  writers  in  the  cause  of  error  had  wrought  most  harm 
to  their  race,  I should  hesitate  in  reply  whether  to  name  Vol- 
taire or  Byron,  or  the  last  most  ingenious  and  most  venomous 
of  the  degraded  philosophers  of  Germany,  or  rather  Cervantes, 
for  he  cast  scorn  upon  the  holiest  principles  of  humanity — he, 
of  all  men,  most  helped  forward  the  terrible  change  in  the  sol- 
diers of  Europe,  from  the  spirit  of  Bayard  to  the  spirit  of 
Bonaparte,*  helped  to  change  loyalty  into  license,  protection 
into  plunder,  truth  into  treachery,  chivalry  into  selfishness  ; 
and  since  his  time,  the  purest  impulses  and  the  noblest  pur- 
poses have  perhaps  been  oftener  stayed  by  the  devil,  under  the 
name  of  Quixotism,  than  under  any  other  base  name  or  false 
allegation. 

Quixotism,  or  Utopianism  : that  is  another  of  the  devil  s 
pet  words.  I believe  the  quiet  admission  which  we  are  all  of 
us  so  ready  to  make,  that,  because  things  have  long  been 
wrong,  it  is  impossible  they  should  ever  be  right,  is  one  of 
the  most  fatal  sources  of  misery  and  crime  from  which  this 
world  suffers.  Whenever  you  hear  a man  dissuading  you 
from  attempting  to  do  well,  on  the  ground  that  perfection 
is  “ Utopian,”  beware  of  that  man.  Cast  the  word  out  of 
your  dictionary  altogether.  Tnere  is  no  need  for  it.  Things 
are  either  possible  or  impossible— you  can  easily  determine 
which,  in  any  given  state  of  human  science.  If  the  thing  is 

* I mean  no  scandal  against  tlie present  emperor  of  the  French,  whose 
truth  has,  I believe,  been  as  conspicuous  in  the  late  political  negotia- 
tions, as  his  decision  and  prudence  have  been  throughout  the  wnole 
couase  of  his  government. 


AND  PAINTING. 


251 


Impossible,  you  need  not  trouble  yourselves  about  it ; if  pos- 
sible, try  for  it.  It  is  very  Utopian  to  hope  for  the  entire 
doing  away  with  drunkenness  and  misery  out  of  the  Canon- 
gate  ; but  the  Utopianism  is  not  our  business — the  work  is. 
It  is  Utopian  to  hope  to  give  every  child  in  this  kingdom  the 
knowledge  of  God  from  its  youth  ; but  the  Utopianism  is  not 
our  business — the  work  is. 

I have  delayed  you  by  the  consideration  of  these  two  words, 
only  in  the  fear  that  they  might  be  inaccurately  applied  to 
the  plans  I am  going  to  lay  before  you  ; for,  though  they 
were  Utopian,  and  though  they  were  romantic,  they  might 
be  none  the  worse  for  that.  But  they  are  neither.  Utopian 
they  are  not ; for  they  are  merely  a proposal  to  do  again 
what  has  been  done  for  hundreds  of  years  by  people  whose 
wealth  and  power  were  as  nothing  compared  to  ours  ; — and 
romantic  they  are  not,  in  the  sense  of  self-sacrificing  or  emi- 
nently virtuous,  for  they  are  merely  the  proposal  to  each  of 
you  that  he  should  live  in  a handsomer  house  than  he  does 
at  present,  by  substituting  a cheap  mode  of  ornamentation 
for  a costly  one.  You  perhaps  fancied  that  architectural 
beauty  was  a very  costly  thing.  Far  from  it.  It  is  architec- 
tural ugliness  that  is  costly.  In  the  modern  system  of  archi- 
tecture, decoration  is  immoderately  expensive,  because  it 
is  both  wrongly  placed  and  wrongly  finished.  I say  first, 
wrongly  placed.  Modern  architects  decorate  the  tops  of 
their  buildings.  Mediaeval  ones  decorated  the  bottom.* 
That  makes  all  the  difference  between  seeing  the  ornament 
and  not  seeing  it.  If  you  bought  some  pictures  to  decorate 
such  a room  as  this,  where  would  you  put  them  ? On  a level 
with  the  eye,  I suppose,  or  nearly  so  ? Not  on  a level  with 
the  chandelier  ? If  you  were  determined  to  put  them  up 
there,  round  the  cornice,  it  would  be  better  for  you  not  to 
buy  them  at  all.  You  would  merely  throw  your  money  away. 
And  the  fact  is,  that  your  money  is  being  thrown  away  con- 
tinually, by  wholesale  ; and  while  you  are  dissuaded,  on  the 
ground  of  expense,  from  building  beautiful  windows  and 

* For  farther  confirmation  of  this  statement,  see  the  Addenda  at  the 
end  of  this  lecture. 


252  LECTURES  ON  ARCHITECTURE 

beautiful  doors,  you  are  continually  made  to  pay  for  ornai 
ments  at  the  tops  of  your  houses,  which,  for  all  the  use  they 
are  of,  might  as  well  be  in  the  moon.  For  instance,  there  is 
not,  on  the  whole,  a more  studied  piece  of  domestic  architect- 
ure  in  Edinburgh  than  the  street  in  which  so  many  of  your 
excellent  physicians  live — Kutland  Street.  I do  not  know  if 
you  have  observed  its  architecture  ; but  if  you  will  look  at  it 
to-morrow,  you  will  see  that  a heavy  and  close  balustrade  is 
put  all  along  the  eaves  of  the  houses.  Your  physicians  are 
not,  I suppose,  in  the  habit  of  taking  academic  and  medita- 
tive walks  on  the  roofs  of  their  houses ; and,  if  not,  this  bal- 
ustrade is  altogether  useless, — nor  merely  useless,  for  you 
will  find  it  runs  directly  in  front  of  all  the  garret  windows, 
thus  interfering  with  their  light,  and  blocking  out  their  view 
of  the  street.  All  that  the  parapet  is  meant  to  do,  is  to  give 
some  finish  to  the  fa9ades,  and  the  inhabitants  have  thus  been 
made  to  pay  a large  sum  for  a piece  of  mere  decoration. 
Whether  it  does  finish  the  fayades  satisfactorily,  or  whether 
the  physicians  resident  in  the  street,  or  their  patients,  are  in 
anywise  edified  by  the  succession  of  pear-shaped  knobs  of 
stone  on  their  house-tops,  I leave  them  to  tell  you,  only  do  i 
not  fancy  that  the  design,  whatever  its  success,  is  an  economi-  i 
cal  one. 

But  this  is  a very  slight  wraste  of  money,  compared  to  the 
constant  habit  of  putting  careful  sculpture  at  the  tops  of  ! 
houses.  A temple  of  luxury  has  just  been  built  in  London, 
for  the  army  and  navy  club.  It  cost  £40,000,  exclusive  of  , 
purchase  of  ground.  It  has  upon  it  an  enormous  quantity  of 
sculpture,  representing  the  gentlemen  of  the  navy  as  little  | 
boys  riding  upon  dolphins,  and  the  gentlemen  of  the  army — ■ 

I couldn’t  see  as  what — nor  can  anybody  ; far  all  this  sculpt* 
ure  is  put  up  at  the  top  of  the  house,  ivliere  the  gutter  j 
should  be,  under  the  cornice.  I know  that  this  was  a Greek 
way  of  doing  things.  I can’t  help  it : that  does  not  make  it  • | 
a wise  one.  Greeks  might  be  willing  to  pay  for  what  they  j 
couldn’t  see,  but  Scotchmen  and  Englishmen  shouldn’t. 

Not  that  the  Greeks  threw  their  work  away  as  we  da 
As  far  as  I know  Greek  buildings,  their  ornamentation 


Fig.  14. 


PLATE  VJII.-(Page  253-Vol.  V.) 
Illustrative  Diagrams. 


AND  PAINTING , 


253 


though  often  bad,  is  always  bold  enough  and  large  enough  ta 
be  visible  in  its  place.  It  is  not  putting  ornament  high  that 
is  wrong  ; but  it  is  cutting  it  too  fine  to  be  seen,  wherever  it 
is.  This  is  the  great  modern  mistake  ; you  are  actually  at 
twice  the  cost  which  would  produce  an  impressive  ornament, 
to  produce  a contemptible  one  ; you  increase  the  price  of 
your  buildings  by  one-half,  in  order  to  mince  their  decoration 
into  invisibility.  Walk  through  your  streets,  and  try  to  make 
out  the  ornaments  on  the  upper  parts  of  your  fine  buildings 
— (there  are  none  at  the  bottoms  of  them).  Don’t  do  it  long, 
or  you  will  all  come  home  with  inflamed  eyes,  but  you  will 
soon  discover  that  you  can  see  nothing  but  confusion  in  orna- 
ments that  have  cost  you  ten  or  twrelve  shillings  a foot. 

Now  the  Gothic  builders  placed  their  decoration  on  a pre- 
cisely contrary  principle,  and  on  the  only  rational  principle. 
All  their  best  and  most  delicate  work  they  put  on  the  founda- 
tion of  the  building,  close  to  the  spectator,  and  on  the  upper 
parts  of  the  walls  they  put  ornaments  large,  bold,  and  capable 
of  being  plainly  seen  at  the  necessary  distance.  A single  ex- 
ample will  enable  you  to  understand  this  method  of  adaptation 
perfectly.  The  lower  part  of  the  fa9ade  of  the  cathedral  of 
Lyons,  built  either  late  in  the  thirteenth  or  early  in  the  four- 
teenth century,  is  decorated  with  a series  of  niches,  filled  by 
statues  of  considerable  size,  which  are  supported  upon  pedes- 
tals within  about  eight  feet  of  the  ground.  In  general,  pedes- 
tals of  this  kind  are  supported  on  some  projecting  portion  of 
the  basement ; but  at  Lyons,  owing  to  other  arrangements  of 
the  architecture  into  which  I have  no  time  to  enter,  they  are 
merely  projecting  tablets,  or  flat-bottomed  brackets  of  stone, 
projecting  from  the  wall.  Each  bracket  is  about  a foot  and 
a half  square,  and  is  shaped  thus  ( fig . 13.),  showing  to  the 
spectator,  as  he  walks  beneath,  the  flat  bottom  of  each  bracket, 
quite  in  the  shade,  but  within  a couple  of  feet  of  the  eye,  and 
lighted  by  the  reflected  light  from  the  pavement.  The  whole 
of  the  surface  of  the  wall  round  the  great  entrance  is  covered 
with  bas-relief,  as  a matter  of  course  ; but  the  architect  ap- 
pears to  have  been  jealous  of  the  smallest  space  which  was 
well  within  the  range  of  sight , and  the  bottom  of  every 


254 


LECTURES  ON  ARCHITECTURE 


bracket  is  decorated  also — nor  that  slightly,  but  decorated 
with  no  fewer  than  six  figures  each , besides  a flower  border , in 
a space,  as  I said,  not  quite  a foot  and  a half  square.  The 
shape  of  the  field  to  be  decorated  being  a kind  of  quatrefoil, 
as  shown  in  fig.  13.,  four  small  figures  are  placed,  one  in  each 
foil,  and  two  larger  ones  in  the  centre.  I had  only  time, 
in  passing  through  the  town,  to  make  a drawing  of  one  of 
the  angles  of  these  pedestals ; that  sketch  I have  enlarged, 
in  order  that  you  may  have  some  idea  of  the  character 
of  the  sculpture.  Here  is  the  enlargement  of  it  (fig.  15.). 
Now  observe,  this  is  one  of  the  angles  of  the  bottom  of 
a pedestal,  not  two  feet  broad,  on  the  outside  of  a Gothic 
building ; it  contains  only  one  of  the  four  little  figures 
which  form  those  angles  ; and  it  shows  you  the  head  only  of 
one  of  the  larger  figures  in  the  centre.  Yet  just  observe  how 
much  design,  how  much  wonderful  composition,  there  is  in 
this  mere  fragment  of  a building  of  the  great  times  ; a frag- 
ment, literally  no  larger  than  a schoolboy  could  strike  off  in 
wantonness  with  a stick  : and  yet  I cannot  tell  you  how  much 
care  has  been  spent — not  so  much  on  the  execution,  for  it 
does  not  take  much  trouble  to  execute  well  on  so  small  a 
scale — but  on  the  design,  of  this  minute  fragment.  You  see 
it  is  composed  of  a branch  of  wild  roses,  which  switches 
round  at  the  angle,  embracing  the  minute  figure  of  the 
bishop,  and  terminates  in  a spray  reaching  nearly  to  the  head 
of  the  large  figure.  You  will  observe  how  beautifully  that 
figure  is  thus  pointed  to  by  the  spray  of  rose,  and  how  all  the 
leaves  around  it  in  the  same  manner  are  subservient  to  the 
grace  of  its  action.  Look,  if  I hide  one  line,  or  one  rosebud, 
how  the  whole  is  injured,  and  how  much  there  is  to  study,  in 
the  detail  of  it.  Look  at  this  little  diamond  crown,  with  a 
lock  of  the  hair  escaping  from  beneath  it ; and  at  the  beau- 
tiful way  in  which  the  tiny  leaf  at  a,  is  set  in  the  angle  to  pre- 
vent its  harshness ; and  having  examined  this  well,  consider 
what  a treasure  of  thought  there  is  in  a cathedral  front,  a 
hundred  feet  wide,  every  inch  of  which  is  wrought  with  sculpt- 
ure like  this  ! And  every  front  of  our  thirteenth  century 
cathedrals  is  inwrought  with  sculpture  of  this  quality  ! And 


Fig.  15. 


PLATE  IX.— (Page  254— Yol.  V.) 
Sculpture  at  Lyons. 


. __ 


Fig.  16. 

PLATE  X.— (Page  255— Yol.  VA 
Niche  at  Amiens. 


AND  PAINTING . 


255 


yet  yon  quietly  allow  yourselves  to  be  told  that  the  men  who 
thus  wrought  were  barbarians,  and  that  your  architects  are 
wiser  and  better  in  covering  your  walls  with  sculpture  of  this 
kind  {Jig.  14.  plate  8.). 

Walk  round  your  Edinburgh  buildings,  and  look  at  the 
height  of  your  eye,  what  you  will  get  from  them.  Nothing 
but  square-cut  stone — square-cut  stone — a wilderness  of 
square-cut  stone  for  ever  and  for  ever  ; so  that  your  houses 
jook  like  prisons,  and  truly  are  so  ; for  the  worst  feature  of 
Greek  architecture  is,  indeed,  not  its  costliness,  but  its  tyr- 
anny.' These  square  stones  are  not  prisons  of  the  body,  but 
graves  of  the  soul ; for  the  very  men  who  could  do  sculpture 
like  this  of  Lyons  for  you  are  here ! still  here,  in  your  de- 
spised workmen  : the  race  has  not  degenerated,  it  is  you  who 
have  bound  them  down,  and  buried  them  beneath  your  Greek 
stones.  There  would  be  a resurrection  of  them,  as  of  re- 
newed souls,  if  you  would  only  lift  the  weight  of  these  weary 
walls  from  off  their  hearts.* 

But  I am  leaving  the  point  immediately  in  question,  which, 
you  will  remember,  was  the  proper  adaptation  of  ornament  to 
its  distance  from  the  eye.  I have  given  you  one  example  of 
Gothic  ornament,  meant  to  be  seen  close  ; now  let  me  give 
you  one  of  Gothic  ornament  intended  to  be  seen  far  off. 
Here  {fig.  16.)  is  a sketch  of  a niche  at  Amiens  Cathedral, 
some  fifty  or  sixty  feet  high  on  the  facade,  and  seven  or 
eight  feet  wide.  Now  observe,  in  the  ornament  close  to  the 
eye,  you  had  six  figures  and  a whole  wreath  of  roses  in  the 
space  of  a foot  and  a half  square  ; but  in  the  ornament  sixty 
feet  from  the  eye,  you  have  now  only  ten  or  twelve  large 
leaves  in  a space  of  eight  feet  square  ! and  note  also  that  now 
there  is  no  attempt  whatsoever  at  the  refinement  of  line  and 
finish  of  edge  which  there  was  in  the  other  example.  The 
sculptor  knew,  that  at  the  height  of  this  niche,  people  would 
not  attend  to  the  delicate  lines,  and  that  the  broad  shadows 
would  catch  the  eye  instead.  He  has  therefore  left,  as  you 
See,  rude  square  edges  to  his  niche,  and  carved  his  leaves  as 

* This  subject  is  farther  pursued  in  the  Addenda  at  the  end  of  this 
Lecture, 


LECTURES  ON  ARCHITECTURE 


256 

massively  and  broadly  as  possible  ; and  yet,  observe  liow  dex» 
terously  he  has  given  you  a sense  of  delicacy  and  minutenesn 
in  the  work,  by  mingling  these  small  leaves  among  the  large 
ones.  I made  this  sketch  from  a photograph,  and  the  spot 
in  which  these  leaves  occurred  was  obscure  ; I have,  there- 
fore, used  those  of  the  Oxalis  acetosella,  of  which  the  quaint 
form  is  always  interesting. 

And  you  see  by  this  example  also  what  I meant  just  now 
by  saying,  that  our  own  ornament  was  not  only  wrongly 
placed,  but  wrongly  finished.  The  very  qualities  which  fit 
this  leaf-decoration  for  due  effect  upon  the  eye,  are  those 
which  would  conduce  to  economy  in  its  execution.  A more 
expensive  ornament  would  be  less  effective  ; and  it  is  the 
very  price  we  payr  for  finishing  our  decorations  which  spoils 
our  architecture.  And  the  curious  thing  is,  that  while  jtou 
all  appreciate,  and  that  far  too  highly,  what  is  called  “ the 
bold  style  ” in  painting,  you  cannot  appreciate  it  in  sculpture. 
You  like  a hurried,  broad,  dashing  manner  of  execution  in  a 
watercolour  drawing,  though  that  may  be  seen  as  near  as  you 
choose,  and  yet  you  refuse  to  admit  the  nobleness  of  a bold, 
simple,  and  dashing  stroke  of  the  chisel  in  work  which  is  to 
be  seen  forty  fathoms  off.  Be  assured  that  “ handling  ” is  as 
great  a thing  in  marble  as  in  paint,  and  that  the  power  of 
producing  a masterly  effect  with  few  touches  is  as  essential  in 
an  architect  as  in  a draughtsman,  though  indeed  that  power 
is  never  perfectly  attained  except  by  those  w’ho  possess  the 
powTer  of  giving  the  highest  finish  when  there  is  occasion. 

But  there  is  yet  another  and  a weightier  charge  to  be 
brought  against  our  modern  Pseudo-Greek  ornamentation. 
It  is,  first,  wrongly  placed  ; secondly,  wrongly  finished  ; and, 
thirdly,  utterly  without  meaning.  Observe  in  these  two 
Gothic  ornaments,  and  in  every  other  ornament  that  ever  was 
carved  in  the  great  Gothic  times,  there  is  a definite  aim  at 
the  representation  of  some  natural  object.  In  fig.  15.  you 
have  an  exquisite  group  of  rose-stems,  with  the  flowers  and 
buds  ; in  fig.  16.,  various  wild  weeds,  especially  the  Geranium 
pratense  ; in  every  case  you  have  an  approximation  to  a nat- 
ural form,  and  an  unceasing  variety  of  suggestion  But  how 


AND  PAINTING . 


257 


much,  of  nature  have  you  in  your  Greek  buildings?  I will 
show  you,  taking  for  an  example  the  best  you  have  lately 
built ; and,  in  doing  so,  I trust  that  nothing  that  I say  will  be 
thought  to  have  any  personal  purpose,  and  that  the  architect 
of  the  building  in  question  will  forgive  me  ; for  it  is  just  be- 
cause it  is  a good  example  of  the  style  that  I think  it  more 
fair  to  use  it  for  an  example.  If  the  building  were  a bad  one 
of  the  kind,  it  would  not  be  a fair  instance  ; and  I hope, 
therefore,  that  in  speaking  of  the  institution  on  the  mound, 
just  in  progress,  I shall  be  understood  as  meaning  rather  a 
compliment  to  its  architect  than  otherwise.  It  is  not  his 
fault  that  we  force  him  to  build  in  the  Greek  manner. 

Now,  according  to  the  orthodox  practice  in  modern  archi- 
tecture, the  most  delicate  and  minute  pieces  of  sculpture  on 
that  building  are  at  the  very  top  of  it,  just  under  its  gutter. 
You  cannot  see  them  in  a dark  day,  and  perhaps  may  never, 
to  this  hour,  have  noticed  them  at  all.  But  there  they  are, 
sixty-six  finished  heads  of  lions,  all  exactly  the  same ; and, 
therefore,  I suppose,  executed  on  some  noble  Greek  type,  too 
noble  to  allow  any  modest  Modern  to  think  of  improving 
upon  it.  But  whether  executed  on  a Greek  type  or  no,  it  is  to 
be  presumed  that,  as  there  are  sixty-six  of  them  alike,  and  on 
so  important  a building  as  that  which,  is  to  contain  your  school 
of  design,  and  which  is  the  principal  example  of  the  Athenian 
style  in  modern  Athens,  there  must  be  something  especially 
admirable  in  them,  and  deserving  your  most  attentive  con- 
templation. In  order,  therefore,  that  you  might  have  a fair 
opportunity  of  estimating  their  beauty,  I was  desirous  of  get- 
ting a sketch  of  a real  lion’s  head  to  compare  with  them,  and 
my  friend  Mr.  Millais  kindly  offered  to  draw  both  the  one  and 
the  other  for  me.  You  have  not,  however,  at  present,  a lion 
in  your  zoological  collection  ; and  it  being,  as  you  are  prob- 
ably aware,  the  first  principle  of  Pre-Raphaelitism,  as  well  as 
essential  to  my  object  in  the  present  instance,  that  no  drawing 
should  be  made  except  from  nature  itself,  I was  obliged  to  be 
content  with  a tiger’s  head,  which,  however,  will  answer  my 
purpose  just  as  well,  in  enabling  you  to  compare  a piece  oi 
true,  faithful,  and  natural  work  with  modem  architectural 


258 


LECTURES  ON  ARCHITECTURE 


sculpture.  Here,  in  the  first  place,  is  Mr.  Millais’  drawing 
from  the  living  beast  (Jig.  17.).  I have  not  the  least  fear  but 
that  you  will  at  once  acknowledge  its  truth  and  feel  its  power. 
Prepare  yourselves  next  for  the  Grecian  sublimity  of  the  ideal 
beast,  from  the  cornice  of  your  schools  of  design.  Behold  it 
(fig.  18.). 

Now  we  call  ourselves  civilized  and  refined  in  matters  o! 
art,  but  I assure  you  it  is  seldom  that,  in  the  very  basest  and 
coarsest  grotesques  of  the  inferior  Gothic  workmen,  anything 
so  contemptible  as  this  head  can  be  ever  found.  They  only 
sink  into  such  a failure  accidentally,  and  in  a single  instance  ; 
and  we,  in  our  civilization,  repeat  this  noble  piece  of  work 
threescore  and  six  times  over,  as  not  being  able  to  invent  any- 
thing else  so  good ! Do  not  think  Mr.  Millais  has  caricatured 
it.  It  is  drawn  with  the  strictest  fidelity  ; photograph  one  of 
the  heads  to-morrow,  and  you  will  find  the  photograph  tell 
you  the  same  tale.  Neither  imagine  that  this  is  an  unusual 
example  of  modern  work.  Your  banks  and  public  offices  are 
covered  with  ideal  lions’  heads  in  every  direction,  and  you 
will  find  them  all  just  as  bad  as  this.  And,  farther,  note  that 
the  admission  of  such  barbarous  types  of  sculpture  is  not 
merely  ridiculous ; it  is  seriously  harmful  to  your  powers  of 
perceiving  truth  and  beauty  of  any  kind  or  at  any  time.  Im- 
agine the  effect  on  the  minds  of  your  children  of  having  such 
representations  of  a lion’s  head  as  this  thrust  upon  them  per- 
petually ; and  consider  what  a different  effect  might  be  pro- 
duced upon  them  if,  instead  of  this  barren  and  insipid  absurd- 
ity, every  boss  on  jour  buildings  were,  according  to  the 
workman’s  best  ability,  a faithful  rendering  of  the  form  of 
some  existing  animal,  so  that  all  their  v*7alls  wore  so  many 
pages  of  natural  history.  And,  finally,  consider  the  difference, 
with  respect  to  the  mind  of  the  workman  himself,  between 
being  kept  all  his  life  carving,  by  sixties,  and  forties,  and  thir- 
ties, repetitions  of  one  false  and  futile  model — and  being  sent, 
for  every  piece  of  work  he  had  to  execute,  to  make  a stern 
and  faithful  study  from  some  living  creature  of  God. 

And  this  last  consideration  enables  me  to  press  this  sub- 
ject on  you  on  far  higher  grounds  than  I have  done  yet. 


PLATE  XI.— (Page  258— Yol.  V.) 

Tiger’s  Head,  and  Improvement  op  the  Sam£ 
on  Greek  Principles. 


AND  PAINTING. 


259 


I have  hitherto  appealed  only  to  your  national  pride,  or  to 
your  common  sense  ; but  surely  I should  treat  a Scottish 
audience  with  indignity  if  I appealed  not  finally  to  something 
higher  than  either  of  them — to  their  religious  principles. 

You  know  how  often  it  is  difficult  to  be  wisely  charitable, 
to  do  good  without  multiplying  the  sources  of  evil.  You 
know  that  to  give  alms  is  nothing  unless  you  give  thought 
also  ; and  that  therefore  it  is  written,  not  “ blessed  is  he  that 
feedeth  the  poor,”  but,  ‘‘blessed  is  he  that  consider eth  the 
poor.”  And  you  know  that  a little  thought  and  a little  kind- 
ness are  often  worth  more  than  a great  deal  of  money. 

Now  this  charity  of  thought  is  not  merely  to  be  exercised 
towards  the  poor  ; it  is  to  be  exercised  towards  all  men. 
There  is  assuredly  no  action  of  our  social  life,  however  un- 
important, which,  by  kindly  thought,  may  not  be  made  to 
have  a beneficial  influence  upon  others  ; and  it  is  impossible 
to  spend  the  smallest  sum  of  money,  for  any  not  absolutely 
necessary  purpose,  without  a grave  responsibility  attaching  to 
the  manner  of  spending  it.  The  object  wre  ourselves  covet 
may,  indeed,  be  desirable  and  harmless,  so  far  as  we  are  con- 
cerned, but  the  providing  us  with  it  may,  perhaps,  be  a very 
prejudicial  occupation  to  some  one  else.  And  then  it  becomes 
instantly  a moral  question,  whether  we  ate  to  indulge  our- 
selves or  not.  Whatever  we  wish  to  buy,  we  ought  first  to 
consider  not  only  if  the  thing  be  fit  for  us,  but  if  the  manu- 
facture of  it  be  a wholesome  and  happy  one  ; and  if,  on  the 
whole,  the  sum  we  are  going  to  spend  will  do  as  much  good 
spent  in  this  way  as  it  would  if  spent  in  any  other  way.  It 
may  be  said  that  we  have  not  time  to  consider  all  this  before 
we  make  a purchase.  But  no  time  could  be  spent  in  a more 
important  duty  ; and  God  never  imposes  a duty  without  giv- 
ing the  time  to  do  it.  Let  us,  however,  only  acknowledge 
the  principle  once  make  up  your  mind  to  allow  the  consid- 
eration of  the  effect  of  your  purchases  to  regulate  the  kind,  of 
your  purchase,  and  you  will  soon  easily  find  grounds  enough 
to  decide  upon.  The  plea  of  ignorance  will  never  take  away 
our  responsibilities.  It  is  written,  “If  thou  sayest,  Behold 
we  knew  it  not ; doth  not  he  that  pondereth  the  heart  con- 


LECTURES  ON  ARCHITECTURE 


260 

sicler  it  ? and  he  that  keepeth  thy  soul,  doth  not  he  knovf 

it  ? ” 

I could  press  this  on  you  at  length,  hut  I hasten  to  apply  the 
principle  to  the  subject  of  art.  I will  do  so  broadly  at  first,  and 
then  come  to  architecture.  Enormous  sums  are  spent  annually 
by  this  country  in  what  is  called  patronage  of  art,  but  in  what 
is  for  the  most  part  merely  buying  what  strikes  our  fancies. 
True  and  judicious  patronage  there  is  indeed  ; many  a work  of 
art  is  bought  by  those  who  do  not  care  for  its  possession,  to 
assist  the  struggling  artist,  or  relieve  the  unsuccessful  one.  But 
for  the  most  part,  I fear  we  are  too  much  in  the  habit  of  buy- 
ing simply  what  we  like  best,  wholly  irrespective  of  any  good 
to  be  done,  either  to  the  artist  or  to  the  schools  of  the  coun- 
try. Now  let  us  remember,  that  eveiy  farthing  we  spend  on 
objects  of  art  has  influence  over  men’s  minds  and  spirits,  far 
more  than  over  their  bodies.  By  the  purchase  of  every  print 
Which  hangs  on  your  walls,  of  every  cup  out  of  which  you 
drink,  and  every  table  off  which  you  eat  your  bread,  you  are 
educating  a mass  of  men  in  one  way  or  another.  You  are 
either  employing  them  healthily  or  unwholesomely  ; you  are 
making  them  lead  happy  or  unhappy  lives ; you  are  leading 
them  to  look  at  nature,  and  to  love  her — to  think,  to  feel,  to 
enjoy, — -or  you  are  blinding  them  to  nature,  and  keeping 
them  bound,  like  beasts  of  burden,  in  mechanical  and  monoto- 
nous employments.  We  shall  all  be  asked  one  day,  why  we 
did  not  think  more  of  this. 

Well  but,  you  will  say,  how  can  we  decide  what  we  ought 
to  buy,  but  by  our  likings?  You  would  not  have  us  buy 
what  we  don’t  like  ? No,  but  I would  have  you  thoroughly 
sure  that  there  is  an  absolute  right  and  wrong  in  all  art,  and 
try  to  find  out  the  right,  and  like  that ; and,  secondly,  some- 
times to  sacrifice  a careless  preference  or  fancy,  to  what  you 
know  is  for  the  good  of  your  fellow-creatures.  For  instance, 
when  you  spend  a guinea  upon  an  engraving,  what  have  you 
done  ? You  have  paid  a man  for  a certain  number  of  hours 
to  sit  at  a dirty  table,  in  a dirty  room,  inhaling  the  fumes  of 
nitric  acid,  stooping  over  a steel  plate,  on  which,  by  the  help 
of  a magnifying  glass,  he  is,  one  by  one,  laboriously  cutting 


AND  PAINTING. 


261 


out  certain  notches  and  scratches,  of  which  the  effect  is  to  be 
the  copy  of  another  man’s  work.  You  cannot  suppose  you 
have  done  a very  charitable  thing  in  this  ! On  the  other 
hand,  whenever  you  buy  a small  watercolour  drawing,  you 
have  employed  a man  happily  and  healthily,  working  in  a 
clean  room  (if  he  likes),  or  more  probably  still,  out  in  the 
pure  country  and  fresh  air,  thinking  about  something,  and 
learning  something  every  moment  ; not  straining  his  eye- 
sight, nor  breaking  his  back,  but  working  in  ease  and  happi- 
ness. Therefore  if  you  can  like  a modest  watercolour  better 
than  an  elaborate  engraving,  do.  There  may  indeed  be  en- 
gravings which  are  %vorth  the  suffering  it  costs  to  produce 
them  ; but  at  all  events,  engravings  of  public  dinners  and  lay- 
ing of  foundation  stones,  and  such  things,  might  be  dispensed 
with.  The  engraving  ought  to  be  a first-rate  picture  of  a 
first-rate  subject  to  be  worth  buying.  Farther,  I know  that 
many  conscientious  persons  are  desirous  of  encouraging  art, 
but  feel  at  the  same  time  that  their  judgment  is  not  certain 
enough  to  secure  their  choice  of  the  best  kind  of  art.  To 
such  persons  I would  now  especially  address  myself,  fully  ad- 
mitting the  greatness  of  their  difficulty.  It  is  not  an  easy 
thing  to  acquire  a knowledge  of  painting  ; and  it  is  by  no 
means  a desirable  thing  to  encourage  bad  painting.  One  bad 
painter  makes  another,  and  one  bad  painting  will  often  spoil 
a great  many  healthy  judgments.  I could  name  popular 
painters  now  living,  who  have  retarded  the  taste  of  their  gen- 
eration by  twenty  years.  Unless,  therefore,  we  are  certain 
not  merely  that  wre  like  a painting,  but  that  we  are  right  in 
liking  it,  we  should  never  buy  it.  For  there  is  one  way  of 
spending  money  which  is  perfectly  safe,  and  in  which  we  may 
be  absolutely  sure  of  doing  good.  I mean,  by  paying  for  simple 
sculpture  of  natural  objects,  chiefly  flowers  and  animals.  You 
are  aware  that  the  possibilities  of  error  in  sculpture  are  much 
less  than  in  painting  ; it  is  altogether  an  easier  and  simpler 
art,  invariably  attaining  perfection  long  before  painting,  in 
the  progress  of  a national  mind.  It  may  indeed  be  corrupted 
by  false  taste,  or  thrown  into  erroneous  forms  ; but  for  the 
most  part,  the  feebleness  of  a sculptor  is  shown  in  imperfec' 


262 


LECTURES  ON  ARCHITECTURE 


tion  and  rudeness,  rather  than  in  definite  error.  He  does  not 
reach  the  fineness  of  the  forms  of  nature  ; but  he  approaches 
them  truly  up  to  a certain  point,  or,  if  not  so,  at  all  events  an 
honest  effort  will  continually  improve  him  : so  that  if  we  set 
a simple  natural  form  before  him,  and  tell  him  to  copy  it,  we 
are  sure  we  have  given  him  a wholesome  and  useful  piece  of 
education  ; but  if  we  told  him  to  paint  it,  he  might,  with  all 
the  honesty  in  the  world,  paint  it  wrongly  and  falsely,  to  the 
end  of  his  days. 

So  much  for  the  workman.  But  the  workman  is  not  the 
only  person  concerned.  Observe  farther,  that  when  you  buy 
a print,  the  enjoyment  of  it  is  confined  to  yourself  and  to 
your  friends.  But  if  you  carve  a piece  of  stone,  and  put  it 
on  the  outside  of  your  house,  it  will  give  pleasure  to  every 
person  who  passes  along  the  street — to  an  innumerable  mul- 
titude, instead  of  a few. 

Nay  but,  you  say,  we  ourselves  shall  not  be  benefited  by 
the  sculpture  on  the  outsides  of  our  houses.  Yes,  you  will, 
and  in  an  extraordinary  degree  ; for,  observe  farther,  that 
architecture  differs  from  painting  peculiarly  in  being  an  art 
of  accumulation.  The  prints  bought  by  your  friends  and 
hung  up  in  their  houses,  have  no  collateral  effect  with  yours  : 
they  must  be  separately  examined,  and  if  ever  they  were 
hung  side  by  side,  they  would  rather  injure  than  assist  each 
other’s  effect.  But  the  sculpture  on  your  friend’s  house 
unites  in  effect  with  that  on  your  own.  The  two  houses  form 
one  grand  mass — far  grander  than  either  separately  ; much 
more  if  a third  be  added — and  a fourth  ; much  more  if  the 
whole  street — if  the  whole  city — join  in  the  solemn  harmony 
of  sculpture.  Your  separate  possessions  of  pictures  and  prints 
are  to  you  as  if  you  sang  pieces  of  music  with  your  single 
voices  in  your  own  houses.  But  your  architecture  would  be 
as  if  you  all  sang  together  in  one  mighty  choir.  In  the  sep- 
arate picture,  it  is  rare  that  there  exists  any  very  high  source 
of  sublime  emotion  ; but  the  great  concerted  music  of  the 
streets  of  the  city  when  turret  rises  over  turret,  and  casement 
frowns  beyond  casement,  and  tower  succeeds  to  tower  aloug 
the  farthest  ridges  of  the  inhabited  hills, — this  is  a sublimity 


AND  PAINTING. 


2C3 


of  which  you  can  at  present  form  no  conception  ; and  capa- 
ble, I believe,  of  exciting  almost  the  deepest  emotion  that  art 
I can  ever  strike  from  the  bosoms  of  men. 

And  justly  the  deepest : for  it  is  a law  of  God  and  of  nature, 

! that  your  pleasures — as  your  virtues — shall  be  enhanced  by 
| mutual  aid.  As,  by  joining  hand  in  hand,  you  can  sustain 
' each  other  best,  so,  hand  in  hand,  you  can  delight  each  other 
best.  And  there  is  indeed  a charm  and  sacredness  in  street 
i architecture  which  must  be  wanting  even  to  that  of  the  tern- 
pie  : it  is  a little  thing  for  men  to  unite  in  the  forms  of  a 
religious  service,  but  it  is  much  for  them  to  unite,  like  true 
| brethren,  in  the  arts  and  offices  of  their  daily  lives. 

And  now,  I can  conceive  only  of  one  objection  as  likely 
still  to  arise  in  your  minds,  which  I must  briefly  meet.  Your 
pictures,  and  other  smaller  works  of  art,  you  can  carry  with 
I you,  wherever  you  live  ; your  house  must  be  left  behind. 
Indeed,  I believe  that  the  wandering  habits  which  have  now 
become  almost  necessary  to  our  existence,  lie  more  at  the 
!|  root  of  our  bad  architecture  than  any  other  character  of  mod- 
ern times.  We  always  look  upon  our  houses  as  mere  tempo- 
rary lodgings.  We  are  always  hoping  to  get  larger  and  finer 
ones,  or  are  forced,  in  some  way  or  other,  to  live  where  wre 
do  not  choose,  and  in  continual  expectation  of  changing  our 
place  of  abode.  In  the  present  state  of  society,  this  is  in  a 
great  measure  unavoidable  ; but  let  us  remember  it  is  an 
1 evil ; and  that  so  far  as  it  is  avoidable,  it  becomes  our  duty 
to  check  the  impulse.  It  is  not  for  me  to  lead  you  at  present 
into  any  consideration  of  a matter  so  closely  touching  your 
private  interests  and  feelings  ; but  it  surely  is  a subject  for 
serious  thought,  whether  it  might  not  be  better  for  many  of 
us,  if,  on  attaining  a certain  position  in  life,  we  determined, 
with  God’s  permission,  to  choose  a home  in  which  to  live  and 
die, — a home  not  to  be  increased  by  adding  stone  to  stone 
and  field  to  field,  but  which,  being  enough  for  all  our  wishes 
at  that  period,  we  should  resolve  to  be  satisfied  with  for 
ever.  Consider  this  ; and  also,  whether  we  ought  not  to  be 
more  in  the  habit  of  seeking  honour  from  our  descendants 
than  our  ancestors  ; thinking  it  better  to  be  nobly  remem* 


264 


LECTURES  ON  ARCHITECTURE 


bered  than  nobly  born  ; and  striving  so  to  live,  that  our  sons, 
and  our  sons’  sons,  for  ages  to  come,  might  still  lead  theil 
children  reverently  to  the  doors  out  of  which  we  had  been 
carried  to  the  grave,  saying,  “ Look  : This  was  his  house : 
This  was  his  chamber.” 

I believe  that  you  can  bring  forward  no  other  serious  ob- 
jection to  the  principles  for  which  I am  pleading.  They  are 
so  simple,  and,  it  seems  to  me,  so  incontrovertible,  that  I 
trust  you  will  not  leave  this  room  without  determining,  as 
you  have  opportunity,  to  do  something  to  advance  this  long- 
neglected  art  of  domestic  architecture.  The  reasons  I have 
laid  before  you  would  have  weight,  even  were  I to  ask  you  to 
go  to  some  considerable  expenditure  beyond  what  you  at 
present  are  accustomed  to  devote  to  such  purposes  ; but 
nothing  more  would  be  needed  than  the  diversion  of  ex- 
penditures, at  present  scattered  and  unconsidered,  into  a sin- 
gle and  effective  channel.  Nay,  the  mere  interest  of  the 
money  which  we  are  accustomed  to  keep  dormant  by  us  in 
the  form  of  plate  and  jewellery,  would  alone  be  enough  to 
sustain  a school  of  magnificent  architecture.  And  although, 
in  highly  wrought  plate,  and  in  finely  designed  jewellery, 
noble  art  may  occasionally  exist,  yet  in  general  both  jewels 
and  sendees  of  silver  are  matters  of  ostentation,  much  more 
than  sources  of  intellectual  pleasure.  There  are  also  many 
evils  connected  with  them — they  are  a care  to  their  possessors, 
a temptation  to  the  dishonest,  and  a trouble  and  bitterness 
to  the  poor.  So  that  I cannot  but  think  that  part  of  the 
wealth  which  now  lies  buried  in  these  doubtful  luxuries, 
might  most  wisely  and  kindly  be  thrown  into  a form  which 
would  give  perpetual  pleasure,  not  to  its  possessor  only,  but 
to  thousands  besides,  and  neither  tempt  the  unprincipled,  nor 
inflame  the  envious,  nor  mortify  the  poor  ; while,  supposing 
that  your  own  dignity  was  dear  to  you,  this,  you  may  rely 
upon  it,  would  be  more  impressed  upon  others  by  the  noble* 
ness  of  your  house-walls  than  by  the  glistening  of  your  side- 
boards. 

And  even  supposing  that  some  additional  expenditure  were 
required  for  this  purpose,  are  we  indeed  so  much  poorei 


Fig.  19. 


PLATE  Xn  — (Page  265  -Vol.  Y.) 

Garret  Window  in  Hotel  de  Bourgtheroude. 


AND  PAINTING. 


265 


than  our  ancestors,  that  we  cannot  now,  in  all  the  power  of 
Britain,  afford  to  do  what  was  done  by  every  small  republic, 
by  every  independent  city,  in  the  middle  ages,  throughout 
France,  Italy,  and  Germany  ? I am  not  aware  of  a vestige  of 
domestic  architecture,  belonging  to  the  great  mediseval  pe- 
riods,  which,  according  to  its  material  and  character,  is  not 
richly  decorated.  But  look  here  [fig.  19.),  look  to  what  an 
extent  decoration  has  been  carried  in  the  domestic  edifices  of 
a city,  I suppose  not  much  superior  in  importance,  commer- 
cially speaking,  to  Manchester,  Liverpool,  or  Birmingham — • 
namely,  Rouen,  in  Normandy.  This  is  a garret  window,  still 
existing  there, — a garret  window  built  by  William  de  Bourg- 
theroude  in  the  early  part  of  the  sixteenth  century.  I show 
it  to  you,  first,  as  a proof  of  what  may  be  made  of  the  features 
of  domestic  buildings  we  are  apt  to  disdain  ; and  secondly,  as 
another  example  of  a beautiful  use  of  the  pointed  arch,  filled 
by  the  solid  shield  of  stone,  and  enclosing  a square  casement. 
It  is  indeed  a peculiarly  rich  and  beautiful  instance,  but  ill 
is  a type  of  which  many  examples  still  exist  in  France,  and  of 
which  many  once  existed  in  your  own  Scotland,  of  rude  work 
indeed,  but  admirable  always  in  effect  upon  the  outline  of 
the  building.* 

I do  not,  however,  hope  that  you  will  often  be  able  to  go  as 
far  as  this  in  decoration  ; in  fact  I would  rather  recommend 
a simpler  style  to  you,  founded  on  earlier  examples,  but,  if 
possible,  aided  by  colour,  introduced  in  various  kinds  of  nat- 
urally coloured  stones.  I have  observed  that  your  Scottish 
lapidaries  have  admirable  taste  and  skill  in  the  disposition  of 
the  pebbles  of  your  brooches  and  other  ornaments  of  dress ; 
and  I have  not  the  least  doubt  that  the  genius  of  your  country 
would,  if  directed  to  this  particular  style  of  architecture,  pro- 
duce works  as  beautiful  as  they  would  be  thoroughly  national. 
The  Gothic  of  Florence,  which  owes  at  least  the  half  of  its 

* One  of  the  most  beautiful  instances  I know  of  this  kind  of  window 
is  in  the  ancient  house  of  the  Maxwells,  on  the  estate  of  Sir  John  Max- 
well of  Polloc.  I had  not  seen  it  when  I gave  this  lecture,  or  I should 
have  preferred  it,  as  an  example,  to  that  of  Rouen,  with  reference  to 
modern  possibilities  of  imitation. 


266 


LECTURES  ON  ARCHITECTURE 


beauty  to  the  art  oi  inlaying,  would  furnish  you  with  exqui 
site  examples  ; its  sculpture  is  indeed  the  most  perfect  which 
was  ever  produced  by  the  Gothic  schools  ; but,  besides  this 
rich  sculpture,  all  its  flat  surfaces  are  inlaid  with  coloured 
stones,  much  being  done  with  a green  serpentine,  which 
forms  the  greater  part  of  the  coast  of  Genoa.  You  have,  1 
believe,  large  beds  of  this  rock  in  Scotland,  and  other  stones 
besides,  peculiarly  Scottish,  calculated  to  form  as  noble  a 
school  of  colour  as  ever  existed.* 

And,  now,  I have  but  two  things  more  to  say  to  you  in 
conclusion. 

Most  of  the  lecturers  whom  you  allow  to  address  you,  lay 
before  you  views  of  the  sciences  they  profess,  which  are  either 
generally  received,  or  incontrovertible.  I come  before  you 
at  a disadvantage  ; for  I cannot  conscientiously  tell  you  any- 
thing about  architecture  but  what  is  at  variance  with  all  com- 
monly received  views  upon  the  subject.  I come  before  you, 
professedly  to  speak  of  things  forgotten  or  things  disputed  ; 
and  I lay  before  you,  not  accepted  principles,  but  questions 
at  issue.  Of  those  questions  you  are  to  be  the  judges,  and 
to  you  I appeal.  You  must  not,  when  you  leave  this  room, 
if  you  feel  doubtful  of  the  truth  of  what  I have  said,  refer 
yourselves  to  some  architect  of  established  reputation,  and 
ask  him  whether  I am  right  or  not.  You  might  as  well,  had 
you  lived  in  the  16th  century,  have  asked  a Roman  Catholic 
archbishop  his  opinion  of  the  first  reformer.  I deny  his  juris- 
diction ; I refuse  his  decision.  I call  upon  you  to  be  Bereans 
in  architecture,  as  you  are  in  religion,  and  to  search  into 
these  things  for  yourselves.  Remember  that,  however  candid 
a man  may  be,  it  is  too  much  to  expect  of  him,  when  his 
career  in  life  has  been  successful,  to  turn  suddenly  on  the 
highway,  and  to  declare  that  all  he  has  learned  has  been  false, 
and  all  he  has  done,  worthless  ; yet  nothing  less  than  such  a 
declaration  as  this  must  be  made  by  nearly  every  existing 

* A series  of  four  examples  of  designs  for  windows  was  exhibited  at 
this  point  of  the  lecture,  but  I have  not  engraved  them,  as  they  were 
hastily  made  for  the  purposes  of  momentary  illustration,  and  are  not 
»ucli  as  I choose  to  publish  or  perpetuate. 


AND  PAINTING. 


267 


architect,  before  he  admitted  the  truth  of  one  word  that  I 
have  said  to  you  this  evening.  You  must  be  prepared,  there- 
fore, to  hear  my  opinions  attacked  with  all  the  virulence  of 
established  interest,  and  all  the  pertinacity  of  confirmed 
prejudice  ; you  will  hear  them  made  the  subjects  of  every 
species  of  satire  and  invective  ; but  one  kind  of  opposition  to 
them  you  will  never  hear  ; you  will  never  hear  them  met  by 
quiet,  steady,  rational  argument ; for  that  is  the  one  way  in 
which  they  cannot  be  met.  You  will  constantly  hear  me 
accused — you  yourselves  may  be  the  first  to  accuse  me — of 
presumption  in  speaking  thus  confidently  against  the  estab- 
lished authority  of  ages.  Presumption  ! Yes,  if  I had  spoken 
on  my  own  authority  ; but  I have  appealed  to  two  incontro- 
vertible and  irrefragable  witnesses, — to  the  nature  that  is 
around  you — to  the  reason  that  is  within  you.  And  if  you 
are  willing  in  this  matter  to  take  the  voice  of  authority  against 
that  of  nature  and  of  reason,  take  it  in  other  things  also. 
Take  it  in  religion,  as  you  do  in  architecture.  It  is  not  by  a 
Scottish  audience, — not  by  the  descendants  of  the  Reformer 
and  the  Covenanter- — that  I expected  to  be  met  with  a refusal 
to  believe  that  the  world  might  possibly  have  been  wrong  for 
three  hundred  years,  in  their  ways  of  carving  stones  and  set- 
ting up  of  pillars,  when  they  know  that  they  were  wrong  for 
twelve  hundred  years,  in  their  marking  how  the  roads  divided, 
that  led  to  Hell  and  Heaven. 

You  must  expect  at  first  that  there  will  be  difficulties  and 
inconsistencies  in  carrying  out  the  new  style  ; but  they  will 
soon  be  conquered  if  you  attempt  not  too  much  at  once.  Do 
not  be  afraid  of  incongruities, — do  not  think  of  unities  of 
effect.  Introduce  your  Gothic  line  by  line  and  stone  by 
stone  ; never  mind  mixing  it  with  your  present  architecture  ; 
your  existing  houses  will  be  none  the  worse  for  having  little 
bits  of  better  work  fitted  to  them  ; build  a porch,  or  point  a 
window,  if  you  can  do  nothing  else  ; and  remember  that  it  is 
the  glory  of  Gothic  architecture  that  it  can  do  anything. 
Whatever  you  really  and  seriously  want,  Gothic  will  do  for 
you  ; but  it  must  be  an  earnest  want.  It  is  its  pride  to  ac- 
commodate itself  to  your  needs  ; and  the  one  general  law  un- 


268 


LECTURES  ON  ARCHITECTURE 


der  which  it  acts  is  simply  this, — find  out  what  will  make 
you  comfortable,  build  that  in  the  strongest  and  boldest  way, 
and  then  set  your  fancy  free  in  the  decoration  of  it.  Don’t 
do  anything  to  imitate  this  cathedral  or  that,  however  beau- 
tiful. Do  what  is  convenient ; and  if  the  form  be  a new  one, 
so  much  the  better ; then  set  your  mason’s  wits  to  work,  to 
find  out  some  new  way  of  treating  it.  Only  be  steadily  de- 
termined that,  even  if  you  cannot  get  the  best  Gothic,  at  least 
you  will  have  no  Greek  ; and  in  a few  years’  time, — in  less 
time  than  you  could  learn  a new  science  or  a new  language 
thoroughly, — the  whole  art  of  your  native  country  will  be 
reanimated. 

And,  now,  lastly.  When  this  shall  be  accomplished,  do 
not  think  it  will  make  little  difference  to  you,  and  that  you 
will  be  little  the  happier,  or  little  the  better  for  it.  You  have 
at  present  no  conception,  and  can  have  none,  how  much  you 
would  enjoy  a truly  beautiful  architecture  ; but  I can  give 
you  a proof  of  it  which  none  of  you  w7ill  be  able  to  deny. 
You  will  all  assuredly  admit  this  principle — that  whatever 
temporal  things  are  spoken  of  in  the  Bible  as  emblems  of  the 
highest  spiritual  blessings,  must  be  good  things  in  themselves. 
You  would  allow  that  bread,  for  instance,  would  not  have  been 
used  as  an  emblem  of  the  word  of  life,  unless  it  had  been  good, 
and  necessary  for  man ; nor  water  used  as  the  emblem  of  sanc- 
tification, unless  it  also  had  been  good  and  necessary  for  man. 
You  will  allow  that  oil,  and  honey,  and  balm  are  good,  when 
David  says,  “Let  the  righteous  reprove  me;  it  shall  bean 
excellent  oil ; ” or,  “ How  sweet  are  thy  words  unto  my 
taste ; yea,  sweeter  than  honey  to  my  mouth ; ” or,  when 
Jeremiah  cries  out  in  his  weeping,  “Is  there  no  balm  in 
Gilead  ? is  there  no  physician  there  ? ” You  would  admit  at 
once  that  the  man  who  said  there  was  no  taste  in  the  literal 
honey,  and  no  healing  in  the  literal  balm,  must  be  of  dis- 
torted judgment,  since  God  has  used  them  as  emblems  of 
spiritual  sweetness  and  healing.  And  how,  then,  will  you 
evade  the  conclusion,  that  there  must  be  joy,  and  comfort, 
and  instruction  in  the  literal  beauty  of  architecture,  when 
God,  descending  in  his  utmost  love  to  the  distressed  Jerusa* 


AND  PAINTING. 


269 


lem,  and  addressing  to  her  his  most  precious  and  solemn  prom- 
ises, speaks  to  her  in  such  words  as  these : “ Oh,  thou  af- 
flicted, tossed  with  tempest,  and  not  comforted,” — What  shall 
be  done  to  her  ? — What  brightest  emblem  of  blessing  will 
God  set  before  her  ? “Behold,  I will  lay  thy  stones  with  fair 
colours , and  thy  foundations  with  sapphires  ; and  I will  make 
thy  windows  of  agates , and  thy  gates  of  carbuncles,  and  all 
thy  borders  of  pleasant  stones.”  Nor  is  this  merely  an  em- 
blem of  spiritual  blessing  ; for  that  blessing  is  added  in  the 
concluding  words,  ‘ And  all  thy  children  shall  be  taught  of 
the  Lord,  and  great  shall  be  the  peace  of  thy  children.” 


270 


LECTURES  ON  ARCHITECTURE 


ADDENDA 

TO 

LECTUKES  I.  AND  H 


The  delivery  of  tlie  foregoing  lectures  excited,  as  it  may  be 
imagined,  considerable  indignation  among  the  architects  who 
happened  to  hear  them,  and  elicited  various  attempts  at  reply. 
As  it  seemed  to  have  been  expected  by  the  writers  of  these 
replies,  that  in  two  lectures,  each  of  them  lasting  not  much 
more  than  an  hour,  I should  have  been  able  completely  to 
discuss  the  philosophy  and  history  of  the  architecture  of  the 
world,  besides  meeting  every  objection,  and  reconciling  every 
apparent  contradiction,  which  might  suggest  itself  to  the 
minds  of  hearers  with  whom,  probably,  from  first  to  last,  I 
had  not  a single  exactly  correspondent  idea,  relating  to  the 
matters  under  discussion,  it  seems  unnecessary  to  notice  any 
of  them  in  particular.  But  as  this  volume  may  perhaps  fall 
into  the  hands  of  readers  who  have  not  time  to  refer  to  the 
works  in  which  my  views  have  been  expressed  more  at  large, 
and  as  I shall  now  not  be  able  to  write  or  to  say  anything 
more  about  architecture  for  some  time  to  come,  it  may  be 
useful  to  state  here,  and  explain  in  the  shortest  possible  com- 
pass, the  main  gist  of  the  propositions  which  I desire  to  main- 
tain respecting  that  art ; and  also  to  note  and  answer,  once 
for  all,  such  arguments  as  are  ordinarily  used  by  the  archi- 
tects of  the  modern  school  to  controvert  these  propositions. 
They  may  be  reduced  under  six  heads. 

1.  That  Gothic  or  Eomanesque  construction  is  nobler  than 
Greek  construction. 

2.  That  ornamentation  is  the  principal  part  of  architecture. 


AND  PAINTING. 


271 


3.  That  ornamentation  should  be  visible. 

4.  That  ornamentation  should  be  natural. 

5.  That  ornamentation  should  be  thoughtful. 

6.  And  that  therefore  Gothic  ornamentation  is  nobler  than 
Greek  ornamentation,  and  Gothic  architecture  the  only  archi 
tecture  which  should  now  be  built. 

Proposition  1st. — Gothic  or  Romanesque  construction  is  nobler 
than  Greek  construction  * That  is  to  say,  building  an  arch, 
vault,  or  dome,  is  a nobler  and  more  ingenious  work  than  lay- 
ing a flat  stone  or  beam  over  the  space  to  be  covered.  It  is, 
for  instance,  a nobler  and  more  ingenious  thing  to  build  an 
arched  bridge  over  a stream,  than  to  lay  two  pine-trunks  across 
from  bank  to  bank ; and,  in  like  manner,  it  is  a nobler  and 
more  ingenious  thing  to  build  an  arch  over  a window,  door, 
or  room,  than  to  lay  a single  flat  stone  over  the  same  space. 

No  architects  have  ever  attempted  seriously  to  controvert 
this  proposition.  Sometimes,  however,  they  say  that  “ of  two 
ways  of  doing  a thing,  the  best  and  most  perfect  is  not  always 
to  be  adopted,  for  there  may  be  particular  reasons  for  em- 
ploying an  inferior  one.”  This  I am  perfectly  ready  to  grant, 
only  let  them  show  their  reasons  in  each  particular  case. 
Sometimes  also  they  say,  that  there  is  a charm  in  the  simple 
construction  which  is  lost  in  the  scientific  one.  This  I am 
also  perfectly  ready  to  grant.  There  is  a charm  in  Stonehenge 
which  there  is  not  in  Amiens  Cathedral,  and  a charm  in  an 
Alpine  pine  bridge  which  there  is  not  in  the  Ponte  della  Trin- 

* The  constructive  value  of  Gothic  architecture  is,  however,  far 
greater  than  that  of  Romanesque,  as  the  pointed  arch  is  not  only  sus- 
ceptible of  an  infinite  variety  of  forms  and  applications  to  the  weight  to 
be  sustained,  but  it  possesses,  in  the  outline  given  to  its  masonry  at  its 
perfect  periods,  the  means  of  self-sustainment  to  a far  greater  degree 
than  the  round  arch.  I pointed  out,  I believe,  the  first  time,  the  mean- 
ing and  constructive  value  of  the  Gothic  cusp,  in  page  129  of  the  first 
volume  of  the  ‘'Stones  of  Venice.”  That  statement  was  first  denied, 
and  then  taken  advantage  of,  by  modern  architects  ; and,  considering 
how  often  it  has  been  alleged  that  I have  no  'practical  knowledge  of 
architecture,  it  cannot  but  be  matter  of  some  triumph  to  me,  to  find  the 
“Builder,”  of  the  21st  January,  of  this  year,  describing,  as  a new  in- 
vention, the  successful  application  to  a church  in  Carlow  of  the  princi* 
pie  which  I laid  down  in  the  year  1851* 


272 


LECTURES  ON  ARCHITECTURE 


ita  at  Florence,  and,  in  general,  a charm  in  savageness  which 
there  is  not  in  science.  But  do  not  let  it  be  said,  therefore, 
that  savageness  is  science. 

Proposition  2nd. — Ornamentation  is  the  principal  part  of 
architecture.  That  is  to  say,  the  highest  nobility  of  a build- 
ing does  not  consist  in  its  being  well  built,  but  in  its  being 
nobly  sculptured  or  painted. 

This  is  always,  and  at  the  first  hearing  of  it,  very  naturally, 
considered  one  of  my  most  heretical  propositions.  It  is  also 
one  of  the  most  important  I have  to  maintain  ; and  it  must  be 
permitted  me  to  explain  it  at  some  length.  The  first  thing  to 
be  required  of  a building — not,  observe,  the  highest  thing,  but 
the  first  thing — is  that  it  shall  answer  its  purposes  completely, 
permanently,  and  at  the  smallest  expense.  If  it  is  a house,  it 
should  be  just  of  the  size  convenient  for  its  owner,  containing 
exactly  the  kind  and  number  of  rooms  that  he  wants,  with  ex- 
actly the  number  of  windows  he  wants,  put  in  the  places  that 
he  wants.  If  it  is  a church,  it  should  be  just  large  enough 
for  its  congregation,  and  of  such  shape  and  disposition  as 
shall  make  them  comfortable  in  it  and  let  them  hear  well  in 
it.  If  it  be  a public  office,  it  should  be  so  disposed  as  is  most 
convenient  for  the  clerks  in  their  daily  avocations  ; and  so  on  ; | 
all  this  being  utterly  irrespective  of  external  appearance  or 
aesthetic  considerations  of  any  kind,  and  all  being  done  solidly, 
securely,  and  at  the  smallest  necessary  cost. 

The  sacrifice  of  any  of  these  first  requirements  to  external 
appearance  is  a futility  and  absurdity.  Rooms  must  not  be 
darkened  to  make  the  ranges  of  windows  symmetrical.  Useless 
wings  must  not  be  added  on  one  side  to  balance  useful  wings  j 
on  the  other,  but  the  house  built  with  one  wing,  if  the  owner  j 
has  no  need  of  two  ; and  so  on. 

But  observe,  in  doing  all  this,  there  is  no  High,  or  as  it  is 
commonly  called,  Fine  Art,  required  at  all.  There  may  be  !: 
much  science,  together  with  the  lower  form  of  art,  or  “handi-  j 
craft,”  but  there  is  as  yet  no  Fine  Art.  House-building,  on 
these  terms,  is  no  higher  thing  than  ship-building.  It  indeed  j 
will  generally  be  found  that  the  edifice  designed  with  this  i 
masculine  reference  to  utility,  will  have  a charm  about  it,  , 


AND  PAINTING. 


273 


otherwise  unattainable,  just  as  a ship,  constructed  with  simple 
reference  to  its  service  against  powers  of  wind  and  wave,  turns 
but  one  of  the  loveliest  things  that  human  hands  produce. 
Still,  we  do  not,  and  properly  do  not,  hold  ship-building  to  be 
a fine  art,  nor  preserve  in  our  memories  the  names  of  immor-- 
sal  ship-builders  ; neither,  so  long  as  the  mere  utility  and  con® 

' structive  merit  of  the  building  are  regarded,  is  architecture  to 
l?e  held  a fine  art,  or  are  the  names  of  architects  to  be  remem- 
bered immortally.  For  any  one  may  at  any  time  be  taught  to 
build  the  ship,  or  (thus  far)  the  house,  and  there  is  nothing 
deserving  of  immortality  in  doing  what  any  one  may  be  taught 
to  do. 

But  when  the  house,  or  church,  or  other  building  is  thus 
far  designed,  and  the  forms  of  its  dead  walls  and  dead  roofs 
are  up  to  this  point  determined,  comes  the  divine  part  of  the 
work — namely,  to  turn  these  dead  walls  into  living  ones. 
Only  Deity,  that  is  to  say,  those  who  are  taught  by  Deity,  can 
do  that. 

And  that  is  to  be  done  by  painting  and  sculpture,  that  is 
to  say,  by  ornamentation.  Ornamentation  is  therefore  the 
principal  part  of  architecture,  considered  as  a subject  of  fine 
art. 

Now  observe.  It  Vvill  at  once  follow  from  this  principle, 
that  a great  architect  must  be  a great  sculptor  or  painter. 

This  is  a universal  law.  No  person  who  is  not  a great 
sculptor  or  painter  can  be  an  architect.  If  he  is  not  a sculptor 
or  painter,  he  can  only  be  a builder. 

The  three  greatest  architects  hitherto  known  in  the  world 
were  Phidias,  Giotto,  and  Michael  Angelo  ; with  all  of  whom, 
architecture  was  only  their  play,  sculpture  and  painting  their 
I work.  All  great  works  of  architecture  in  existence  are  either 
the  work  of  single  sculptors  or  painters,  or  of  societies  ol 
| sculptors  and  painters,  acting  collectively  for  a series  of  years. 

A Gothic  cathedral  is  properly  to  be  defined  as  a piece  Gf  the 
' most  magnificent  associative  sculpture,  arranged  on  the  no- 
blest principles  of  building,  for  the  service  and  delight  of 
1 multitudes;  and  the  proper  definition  of  architecture,  as 
distinguished  from  sculpture,  is  merely  “ the  art  of  design* 


27s 


LECTURES  ON  ARCHITECTURE 


ing  sculpture  for  a particular  place,  and  placing  it  there' on 
the  best  principles  of  building.” 

Hence  it  clearly  follows,  that  in  modem  days  we  have  no 
architects.  The  term  “architecture”  is  not  so  much  as  un- 
derstood by  us.  I am  very  sorry  to  be  compelled  to  the  dis- 
courtesy of  stating  this  fact,  but  a fact  it  is,  and  a fact  which 
it  is  necessary  to  state  strongly. 

Hence  also  it  will  follow,  that  the  first  thing  necessary  to 
the  possession  of  a school  of  architecture  is  the  formation  of  | 
a school  of  able  sculptors,  and  that  till  we  have  that,  nothing 
we  do  can  be  called  architecture  at  all. 

This,  then,  being  my  second  proposition,  the  so-called  ! 
“ architects  ” of  the  day,  as  the  reader  will  imagine,  are  not 
willing  to  admit  it,  or  to  admit  any  statement  which  at  all  j 
involves  it  ; and  every  statement,  tending  in  this  direction,  i 
which  I have  hitherto  made,  has  of  course  been  met  by  eager 
opposition  ; opposition  which  perhaps  would  have  been  still 
more  energetic,  but  that  architects  have  not,  I think,  till 
lately,  been  quite  aware  of  the  lengths  to  which  I was  pre- 
pared to  carry  the  principle. 

The  arguments,  or  assertions,  which  they  generally  employ  I 
against  this  second  proposition  and  its  consequences,  are  the 
following. 

First.  That  the  true  nobility  of  architecture  consists,  not  in 
decoration  (or  sculpture),  but  in  the  “ disposition  of  masses,”  j 
and  that  architecture  is,  in  fact,  the  “ art  of  proportion.” 

It  is  difficult  to  overstate  the  enormity  of  the  ignorance  ! 
which  this  popular  statement  implies.  For  the  fact  is  that  i 
all  art,  and  all  nature,  depend  on  the  “disposition  of  masses.” 
Painting,  sculpture,  music,  and  poetry,  depend  all  equally  on 
the  “ proportion,”  whether  of  colours,  stones,  notes,  or  words  I 
Proportion  is  a principle,  not  of  architecture,  but  of  existence.  | 
It  is  by  the  laws  of  proportion  that  stars  shine,  that  moun- 
tains stand,  and  rivers  flow.  Man  can  hardly  perform  any  act  | 
of  his  life,  can  hardly  utter  two  words  of  innocent  speech,  or  i 
move  his  hand  in  accordance  with  those  words,  without  in-  j 
volving  some  reference,  whether  taught  or  instinctive,  to  the  j 
laws  of  proportion.  And  in  the  fine  arts,  it  is  impossible  to  ; 


AND  PAINTING. 


275 


move  a single  step,  or  to  execute  the  smallest  and  simplest 
piece  of  work,  without  involving  all  those  laws  of  proportion 
in  their  full  complexity.  To  arrange  (by  invention)  the  folds 
of  a piece  of  drapery,  or  dispose  the  locks  of  hair  on  the  head 
of  a statue,  requires  as  much  sense  and  knowledge  of  the  laws 
of  proportion,  as  to  dispose  the  masses  of  a cathedral.  The  one 
are  indeed  smaller  than  the  other,  but  the  relations  between 
1,  2,  4,  and  8,  are  precisely  the  same  as  the  relations  between 
G,  12,  24,  and  48.  So  that  the  assertion  that  “ architecture 
is  par  excellence  the  art  of  proportion,”  could  never  be  made 
except  by  persons  who  know  nothing  of  art  in  general ; and, 
in  fact,  never  is  made  except  by  those  architects,  who,  not 
being  artists,  fancy  that  the  one  poor  {esthetic  principle  of 
which  they  are  cognizant  is  the  whole  of  art.  They  find  that 
the  “ disposition  of  masses  ” is  the  only  thing  of  importance 
in  the  art  with  which  they  are  acquainted,  and  fancy  therefore 
that  it  is  peculiar  to  that  art ; whereas  the  fact  is,  that  all 
great  art  begins  exactly  where  theirs  ends,  with  the  “ disposi- 
tion of  masses.”  The  assertion  that  Greek  architecture,  as 
opposed  to  Gothic  architecture,  is  the  “ architecture  of  pro- 
portion,” is  another  of  the  results  of  the  same  broad  igno- 
rance. First,  it  is  a calumny  of  the  old  Greek  style  itself, 
which,  like  every  other  good  architecture  that  ever  existed, 
depends  more  on  its  grand  figure  sculpture,  than  on  its  pro- 
portions of  parts  ; so  that  to  copy  the  form  of  the  Parthenon 
without  its  friezes  and  frontal  statuary,  is  like  copying  the 
figure  of  a human  being  without  its  eyes  and  mouth  ; and,  in 
; the  second  place,  so  far  as  modern  pseudo-Greek  work  does 
depend  on  its  proportions  more  than  Gothic  work,  it  does  so, 
not  because  it  is  better  proportioned,  but  because  it  has  noth  - 
ing  but  proportion  to  depend  upon.  Gesture  is  in  like  man- 
ji  aer  of  more  importance  to  a pantomime  actor  than  to  a trage- 
dian, not  because  his  gesture  is  more  refined,  but  because  he 
has  no  tongue.  And  the  proportions  of  our  common  Greek 
work  are  important  to  it  undoubtedly,  but  not  because  they 
are  or  ever  can  be  more  subtle  than  Gothic  proportion,  but 
because  that  work  has  no  sculpture,  nor  colour,  nor  imagina- 
tion, nor  sacredness,  nor  any  other  quality  whatsoever  in  it* 


276 


LECTURES  ON  ARCHITECTURE 


but  ratios  of  measures.  And  it  is  difficult  to  express  with 
sufficient  force  the  absurdity  of  the  supposition  that  there  is 
more  room  for  refinements  of  proportion  in  the  relations  of 
seven  or  eight  equal  pillars,  with  the  triangular  end  of  a roof 
above  them,  than  between  the  shafts,  and  buttresses,  and 
porches,  and  pinnacles,  and  vaultings,  and  towers,  and  all 
other  doubly  and  trebly  multiplied  magnificences  of  member- 
ship which  form  the  framework  of  a Gothic  temple. 

Second  Reply.— It  is  often  said,  with  some  appearance  of 
plausibility,  that  I dwell  in  all  my  writings  on  little  things 
and  contemptible  details  ; and  not  on  essential  and  large 
things.  Now,  in  the  first  place,  as  soon  as  our  architects  be- 
come capable  of  doing  and  managing  little  and  contemptible 
things,  it  will  be  time  to  talk  about  larger  ones  ; at  present  I 
do  not  see  that  they  can  design  so  much  as  a niche  or  a 
bracket,  and  therefore  they  need  not  as  yet  think  about  any- 
thing larger.  For  although,  as  both  just  now,  and  always,  I 
have  said,  there  is  as  much  science  of  arrangement  needed  in 
the  designing  of  a small  group  of  parts  as  of  a large  one,  3'et 
assuredly  designing  the  larger  one  is  not  the  easier  work  of 
the  two.  For  the  eve  and  mind  can  embrace  the  smaller  ob- 
ject more  completely,  and  if  the  powers  of  conception  are 
feeble,  they  get  embarrassed  by  the  inferior  members  which 
fall  within  the  divisions  of  the  larger  design.*  So  that,  of 
course,  the  best  way  is  to  begin  with  the  smaller  features  ; 
for  most  assuredly,  those  who  cannot  design  small  things 
cannot  design  large  ones  ; and  yet,  on  the  other  hand,  who- 
ever can  design  small  things  perfectly , can  design  whatever 
he  chooses.  The  man  who,  without  copying,  and  by  his  own 
true  and  original  power,  can  arrange  a cluster  of  rose-leaves 
nobly,  can  design  anything.  He  may  fail  from  want  of  taste 
or  feeling,  but  not  from  want  of  power. 

* Thus,  in  speaking  of  Pugin’s  designs,  I said,  “Expect  no  cathedrals 
of  him  ; but  no  one,  at  present,  can  design  a better  finial,  though  he 
will  never  design  even  a finial,  perfectly. ” But  even  this  I said  less 
with  reference  to  powers  of  arrangement,  than  to  materials  of  fancy ; 
for  many  men  have  stone  enough  to  last  them  through  a boss  or  % 
bracket,  but  not  to  last  them  through  a church  front. 


AND  PAINTING . 


277 


And  the  real  reason  why  architects  are  so  eager  in  protest- 
ing against  my  close  examination  of  details,  is  simply  that 
they  know  they  dare  not  meet  me  on  that  ground.  Being,  as 
I have  said,  in  reality  not  architects,  but  builders,  they  can 
indeed  raise  a large  building,  with  copied  ornaments,  which, 
being  huge  and  white,  they  hope  the  public  may  pronounce 
handsome.”  But  they  cannot  design  a cluster  of  oak-leaves 
—no,  nor  a single  human  figure — no,  nor  so  much  as  a beast, 
jr  a bird  or  a bird’s  nest ! Let  them  first  learn  to  invent  as 
much  as  will  fill  a quatrefoil,  or  point  a pinnacle,  and  then  it 
will  be  time  enough  to  reason  with  them  on  the  principles  of 
the  sublime. 

But  farther.  The  things  that  I have  dwelt  upon  in  exam- 
ining buildings,  though  often  their  least  parts,  are  always  in 
reality  their  principal  parts.  That  is  the  principal  part  of  a 
building  in  which  its  mind  is  contained,  and  that,  as  I have 
just  shown,  is  its  sculpture  and  painting.  I do  with  a build- 
ing as  I do  with  a man,  watch  the  eye  and  the  lips  : when  they 
are  bright  and  eloquent,  the  form  of  the  body  is  of  little  con- 
sequence. 

Whatever  other  objections  have  been  made  to  this  second 
proposition,  arise,  as  far  as  I remember,  merely  from  a con- 
fusion of  the  idea  of  essentialness  or  primariness  with  the 
idea  of  nobleness.  The  essential  thing  in  a building, — its 
first  virtue,— is  that  it  be  strongly  built,  and  fit  for  its  uses. 
The  noblest  thing  in  a building,  and  its  highest  virtue,  is  that 
it  be  nobly  sculptured  or  painted.* 

One  or  two  important  corollaries  yet  remain  to  be  stated. 
It  has  just  been  said  that  to  sacrifice  the  convenience  of  a 
building  to  its  external  appearance  is  a futility  and  absurdity,, 
and  that  convenience  and  stability  are  to  be  attained  at  the 
smallest  cost.  But  when  that  convenience  has  been  attained, 
the  adding  the  noble  characters  of  life  by  painting  and 
sculpture,  is  a work  in  which  all  possible  cost  may  be  wisely 
admitted.  There  is  great  difficulty  in  fully  explaining  the 
various  bearings  of  this  proposition,  so  as  to  do  away  with  the 

* Of  course  I use  the  term  painting  as  including  every  mode  of  ap- 
plying colour. 


278 


LECTURES  ON  ARCHITECTURE 


chances  of  its  being  erroneously  understood  and  applied. 
For  although,  in  the  first  designing  of  the  building,  nothing 
is  to  be  admitted  but  what  is  wanted,  and  no  useless  wings 
are  to  be  added  to  balance  useful  ones,  yet  in  its  ultimate 
designing,  when  its  sculpture  and  colour  become  precious,  it 
may  be  that  actual  room  is  wanted  to  display  them,  or  richer 
symmetry  wanted  to  deserve  them  ; and  in  such  cases  even  a 
useless  wall  may  be  built  to  bear  the  sculpture,  as  at  San 
Michele  of  Lucca,  or  a useless  portion  added  to  complete  the 
cadences,  as  at  St.  Mark’s  of  Venice,  or  useless  height  ad- 
mitted in  order  to  increase  the  impressiveness,  as  in  nearly 
every  noble  building  in  the  world.  But  the  right  to  do  this 
is  dependent  upon  the  actual  purpose  of  the  building  becom- 
ing no  longer  one  of  utility  merely  ; as  the  purpose  of  a 
cathedral  is  not  so  much  to  shelter  the  congregation  as  to  awe 
them.  In  such  cases  even  some  sacrifice  of  convenience  may 
occasionally  be  admitted,  as  in  the  case  of  certain  forms  of 
pillared  churches.  But  for  the  most  part,  the  great  law  is, 
convenience  first,  and  then  the  noblest  decoration  possible  ; 
and  this  is  peculiarly  the  case  in  domestic  buildings,  and 
such  public  ones  as  are  constantly  to  be  used  for  practical 
jmrposes. 

Proposition  3rd. — Ornamentation  should  be  visible. 

The  reader  may  imagine  this  to  be  an  indisputable  posi- 
tion ; but,  practically,  it  is  one  of  the  last  which  modern 
architects  are  likely  to  admit  ; for  it  involves  much  more 
than  appears  at  first  sight.  To  render  ornamentation,  with 
all  its  qualities,  clearly  and  entirely  visible  in  its  appointed 
place  on  the  building,  requires  a knowledge  of  effect  and  a 
power  of  design  which  few  even  of  the  best  artists  possess, 
and  which  modern  architects,  so  far  from  possessing,  do  not 
so  much  as  comprehend  the  existence  of.  But,  without 
dwelling  on  this  highest  manner  of  rendering  ornament 
“ visible,”  I desire  only  at  present  to  convince  the  reader 
thoroughly  of  the  main  fact  asserted  in  the  text,  that  while 
modern  builders  decorate  the  tops  of  buildings,  mediaeval 
builders  decorated  the  bottom . So  singular  is  the  ignorance 
yet  prevailing  of  the  first  principles  of  Gothic  architecture 


AND  PAINTING. 


270 


that  I saw  this  assertion  marked  with  notes  of  interrogation 
in  several  of  the  reports  of  these  Lectures ; although,  at 
Edinburgh,  it  was  only  necessary  for  those  who  doubted  it  to 
have  walked  to  Holy  rood  Chapel,  in  order  to  convince  them- 
selves of  the  truth  of  it,  so  far  as  their  own  city  was  con- 
cerned ; and  although,  most  assuredly,  the  cathedrals  of 
Europe  have  now  been  drawn  often  enough  to  establish  the 
very  simple  fact  that  their  best  sculpture  is  in  their  porches, 
not  in  their  steeples.  However,  as  this  great  Gothic  principle 
seems  yet  unacknowledged,  let  me  state  it  here,  once  for  all, 
namely,  that  the  whole  building  is  decorated,  in  all  pure  and 
fine  examples,  with  the  most  exactly  studied  respect  to  the 
powers  of  the  eye  ; the  richest  and  most  delicate  sculpture 
being  put  on  the  walls  of  the  porches,  or  on  the  fa9ade  of  the 
building,  just  high  enough  above  the  ground  to  secure  it 
from  accidental,  (not  from  wanton*)  injury.  The  decoration, 
as  it  rises,  becomes  always  bolder,  and  in  the  buildings  of  the 
greatest  times  generally  simpler.  Thus  at  San  Zeno,  and  the 
duomo  of  Verona,  the  only  delicate  decorations  are  on  the 
porches  and  lower  walls  of  the  fa9ades,  the  rest  of  the  build- 
ings being  left  comparatively  plain ; in  the  ducal  palace  of 
Venice  the  only  very  careful  work  is  in  the  lowest  capitals ; 
and  so  also  the  richness  of  the  work  diminishes  upwards  in 
the  transepts  of  Rouen,  and  fayades  of  Bayeux,  Rheims, 
Amiens,  Abbeville, f Lyons,  and  Notre  Dame  of  Paris.  But 
in  the  middle  and  later  Gothic  the  tendency  is  to  produce  an 
equal  richness  of  effect  over  the  whole  building,  or  even  to  in- 
crease the  richness  towards  the  top  : but  this  is  done  so  skil- 
fully that  no  fine  work  is  wasted  : and  when  the  spectator 
ascends  to  the  higher  points  of  the  building,  which  he  thought 
vere  of  the  most  consummate  delicacy,  he  finds  them  Herculean 

* Nothing  is  more  notable  in  good  Gothic  than  the  confidence  of  its 
builders  in  the  respect  of  the  people  for  their  work.  A great  school  of 
architecture  cannot  exist  when  this  respect  cannot  be  calculated  upon, 
as  it  would  be  vain  to  put  fine  sculpture  within  the  reach  of  a popula- 
tion whose  only  pleasure  would  be  in  defacing  it. 

fThe  church  at  Abbeville  is  late  flamboyant,  but  well  deserves,  for 
the  exquisite  beauty  of  its  porches,  to  be  named  even  with  the  gren£ 
Works  of  the  thirteenth  century. 


280 


LECTURES  ON  ARCHITECTURE 


in  strength  and  rough-hewn  in  style,  the  really  delicate  work 
being  all  put  at  the  base.  The  general  treatment  of  Roman- 
esque work  is  to  increase  the  number  of  arches  at  the  top, 
which  at  once  enriches  and  lightens  the  mass,  and  to  put  the 
finest  sculpt  are  of  the  arches  at  the  bottom.  In  towers  of 
all  kinds  and  periods  the  effective  enrichment  is  towards  the 
top,  and  most  rightly,  since  their  dignity  is  in  their  height ; 
but  they  are  never  made  the  recipients  of  fine  sculpture,  with, 
as  far  as  I know,  the  single  exception  of  Giotto’s  campanile, 
which  indeed  has  fine  sculpture,  but  it  is  at  the  bottom. 

The  fa9ade  of  Wells  Cathedral  seems  to  be  an  exception  to 
the  general  rule,  in  having  its  principal  decoration  at  the  top ; 
but  it  is  on  a scale  of  perfect  power  and  effectiveness  ; while 
in  the  base  modern  Gothic  of  Milan  Cathedral  the  statues  are 
cut  delicately  everywhere,  and  the  builders  think  it  a merit 
that  the  visitor  must  climb  to  the  roof  before  he  can  see  them  ; 
and  our  modern  Greek  and  Italian  architecture  reaches  the 
utmost  pitch  of  absurdity  by  placing  its  fine  work  at  the  top 
only.  So  that  the  general  condition  of  the  thing  may  be 
stated  boldly,  as  in  the  text : the  principal  ornaments  of 
Gothic  buildings  being  in  their  porches,  and  of  modern  build- 
ings, in  their  parapets. 

Proposition  4th. — Ornamentation  should  be  natural, — that  is 
to  say,  should  in  some  degree  express  or  adopt  the  beauty  of 
natural  objects.  This  law,  together  with  its  ultimate  reason, 
is  expressed  in  the  statement  given  in  the  “ Stones  of  Venice,” 
vol.  i.  p.  213.  : “ All  noble  ornament  is  the  expression  of 
man’s  delight  in  God’s  work.” 

Observe,  it  does  not  hence  follow  that  it  should  be  an  exact 
imitation  of,  or  endeavour  in  anywise  to  supersede,  God’s  work. 
It  may  consist  only  in  a partial  adoption  of,  and  compliance 
with,  the  usual  forms  of  natural  things,  without  at  all  going 
to  the  point  of  imitation  ; and  it  is  possible  that  the  point  of 
imitation  may  be  closely  reached  by  ornaments,  which  never- 
theless are  entirely  unfit  for  their  place,  and  are  the  signs  only 
of  a degraded  ambition  and  an  ignorant  dexterity.  Bad  dec- 
orators err  as  easily  on  the  side  of  imitating  nature,  as  of  for- 
getting her  ; and  the  question  of  the  exact  degree  in  which 


AND  PAINTING. 


281 


imitation  should  be  attempted  under  given  circumstances,  is 
one  of  the  most  subtle  and  difficult  in  the  whole  range  of 
criticism.  I have  elsewhere  examined  it  at  some  length,  and 
have  yet  much  to  say  about  it ; but  here  I can  only  state 
briefly  that  the  modes  in  which  ornamentation  ought  to  fall 
short  of  pure  representation  or  imitation  are  in  the  main  three, 
namely, — 

A.  Conventionalism  by  cause  of  colour. 

B.  Conventionalism  by  cause  of  inferiority. 

C.  Conventionalism  by  cause  of  means. 

A.  Conventionalism  by  cause  of  colour. — Abstract  colour 
is  not  an  imitation  of  nature,  but  is  nature  itself  ; that  is  to 
say,  the  pleasure  taken  in  blue  or  red,  as  such,  considered 
as  hues  merely,  is  the  same,  so  long  as  the  brilliancy  of  the 
hue  is  equal,  whether  it  be  produced  by  the  chemistry  of 
man,  or  the  chemistry  of  flowers,  or  the  chemistry  of  skies. 
We  deal  with  colour  as  with  sound — so  far  ruling  the  power 
of  the  light,  as  we  rule  the  power  of  the  air,  producing  beauty 
not  necessarily  imitative,  but  sufficient  in  itself,  so  that, 
wherever  colour  is  introduced,  ornamentation  may  cease  to 
represent  natural  objects,  and  may  consist  in  mere  spots,  or 
bands,  or  flamings,  or  any  other  condition  of  arrangement 
favourable  to  the  colour. 

B.  Conventionalism  by  cause  of  inferiority. — In  general, 
ornamentation  is  set  upon  certain  services,  subjected  to  cer- 
tain systems,  and  confined  within  certain  limits  ; so  that  its 
forms  require  to  be  lowered  or  limited  in  accordance  with  the 
required  relations.  It  cannot  be  allowed  to  assume  the  free 
outlines,  or  to  rise  to  the  perfection  of  imitation.  Whole 
banks  of  flowers,  for  instance,  cannot  be  carved  on  cathedral 
fronts,  but  only  narrow  mouldings,  having  some  of  the  char- 
acters of  banks  of  flowers.  Also,  some  ornaments  require  to 
be  subdued  in  value,  that  they  may  not  interfere  with  the  ef- 
fect of  others  ; and  all  these  necessary  inferiorities  are  attained 
by  means  of  departing  from  natural  forms — it  being  an  estab- 
lished law  of  human  admiration  that  what  is  most  representa* 
live  of  nature  shall,  cceteris  paribus , be  most  attractive. 

All  the  various  kinds  of  ornamentation,  consisting  of  spots, 


282 


LECTURES  ON  ARCHITECTURE 


points,  twisted  bands,  abstract  curves,  and  other  such,  owe 
tlieir  peculiar  character  to  this  conventionalism  “ by  cause  of 
inferiority.” 

C.  Conventionalism  by  cause  of  means. — In  every  branch 
of  art,  only  so  much  imitation  of  nature  is  to  be  admitted  as 
is  consistent  with  the  ease  of  the  workman  and  the  capacities 
of  the  material.  Whatever  shortcomings  are  appointed  (for 
they  are  more  than  permitted,  they  are  in  such  cases  ap- 
pointed, and  meritorious)  on  account  of  the  untractableness 
of  the  material,  come  under  the  head  of  “ conventionalism  by 
cause  of  means.” 

These  conventionalities,  then,  being  duly  understood  and 
accepted,  in  modification  of  the  general  law,  that  law  will  be, 
that  the  glory  of  all  ornamentation  consists  in  the  adoption 
or  imitation  of  the  beauties  of  natural  objects,  and  that  no 
work  can  be  of  high  value  which  is  not  full  of  this  beauty.  To 
this  fourth  proposition,  modern  architects  have  not  ventured 
to  make  any  serious  resistance.  On  the  contrary,  they  seem 
to  be,  little  by  little,  gliding  into  an  obscure  perception  of  the 
fact,  that  architecture,  in  most  periods  of  the  world,  had 
sculpture  upon  it,  and  that  the  said  sculpture  generally  did 
represent  something  intelligible.  For  instance,  we  find  Mr. 
Huggins,  of  Liverpool,  lately  lecturing  upon  architecture  “ in 
its  relations  to  nature  and  the  intellect,”*  and  gravely  inform- 
ing his  hearers,  that  “ in  the  middle  ages,  angels  were  human 
figures  ; ” that  “ some  of  the  richest  ornaments  of  Solomons 
temple  were  imitated  from  the  palm  and  pomegranate,”  and 
that  “ the  Greeks  followed  the  example  of  the  Egyptians  in 
selecting  their  ornaments  from  the  plants  of  their  own  coun- 
try.” It  is  to  be  presumed  that  the  lecturer  has  never  been 
in  the  Elgin  or  Egyptian  room  of  the  British  Museum,  or  it 
might  have  occurred  to  him  that  the  Egyptians  and  Greeks 
sometimes  also  selected  their  ornaments  from  the  men  of  their 
own  country.  But  we  must  not  expect  too  much  illumination 
at  once ; and  as  we  are  told  that,  in  conclusion,  Mr.  Huggins 
glanced  at  “ the  error  of  architects  in  neglecting  the  fountain  of 


See  tlie  “ Builder,”  for  January  12,  1854. 


AND  PAINTING. 


283 


wisdom  thus  open  to  them  in  nature,”  we  may  expect  in  due 
time  large  results  from  the  discovery  of  a source  of  wisdom  so 
unimagined. 

Proposition  5th. — Ornamentation  should  he  thoughtful.  That 
is  to  say,  whenever  you  put  a chisel  or  a pencil  into  a man’s 
hand  for  the  purpose  of  enabling  him  to  produce  beauty,  you 
are  to  expect  of  him  that  he  will  think  about  what  he  is  doing, 
and  feel  something  about  it,  and  that  the  expression  of  this 
thought  or  feeling  will  be  the  most  noble  quality  in  what  he 
produces  with  his  chisel  or  brush,  inasmuch  as  the  power 
of  thinking  and  feeling  is  the  most  noble  thing  in  man.  It 
will  hence  follow  that  as  men  do  not  commonly  think  the  same 
thoughts  twice,  you  are  not  to  require  of  them  that  they  shall 
do  the  same  thing  twice.  You  are  to  expect  another  and  a 
different  thought  of  them,  as  soon  as  one  thought  has  been 
well  expressed. 

Hence,  therefore,  it  follows  also  that  all  noble  ornamenta- 
tion is  perpetually  varied  ornamentation,  and  that  the  mo- 
ment you  find  ornamentation  unchanging,  you  may  know  that 
it  is  of  a degraded  kind  or  degraded  school.  To  this  law7,  the 
only  exceptions  arise  out  of  the  uses  of  monotony,  as  a con- 
trast to  a change.  Many  subordinate  architectural  mouldings 
are  severely  alike  in  their  various  parts  (though  never  unless 
they  are  thoroughly  subordinate,  for  monotony  is  always 
deathful  according  to  the  degree  of  it),  in  order  to  set  off 
change  in  others  ; and  a certain  monotony  or  similarity  must 
be  introduced  among  the  most  changeful  ornaments  in  order 
to  enhance  and  exhibit  their  own  changes. 

The  truth  of  this  proposition  is  self-evident ; for  no  art  can 
be  noble  which  is  incapable  of  expressing  thought,  and  no  art 
is  capable  of  expressing  thought  which  does  not  change.  To 
require  of  an  artist  that  he  should  always  reproduce  the  same 
picture,  w7ould  be  not  one  whit  more  base  than  to  require  of 
a carver  that  he  should  always  reproduce  the  same  sculpture. 

The  principle  is  perfectly  clear  and  altogether  incontroverti- 
ble. Apply  it  to  modern  Greek  architecture,  and  that  archi- 
tecture must  cease  to  exist ; for  it  depends  absolutely  on 
copyism. 


284: 


LECTURES  ON  ARCHITECTURE 


The  sixth  proposition  above  stated,  that  Gothic  ornaments 
Hon  is  nobler  thorn,  Greek  ornamentation,  &c.,  is  therefore  suffi- 
ciently proved  by  the  acceptance  of  this  one  principle,  no  less 
important  than  unassailable.  Of  all  that  I have  to  bring  for- 
ward respecting  architecture,  this  is  the  one  I have  most  at 
heart ; for  on  the  acceptance  of  this  depends  the  determina- 
tion whether  the  workman  shall  be  a living,  progressive,  and 
happy  human  being,  or  whether  he  shall  be  a mere  machine, 
with  its  valves  smoothed  by  heart’s  blood  instead  of  oil, — the 
most  pitiable  form  of  slave. 

And  it  is  with  especial  reference  to  the  denial  of  this  prin- 
ciple in  modern  and  renaissance  architecture,  that  I speak  of 
that  architecture  with  a bitterness  which  appears  to  many 
readers  extreme,  while  in.  reality,  so  far  from  exaggerating,  I 
have  not  grasp  enough  of  thought  to  embrace,  the  evils  wdrich 
have  resulted  among  all  the  orders  of  European  society  from 
the  introduction  of  the  renaissance  schools  of  building,  in 
turning  away  the  eyes  of  the  beholder  from  natural  beauty, 
and  reducing  the  workman  to  the  level  of  a machine.  In  the 
Gothic  times,  writing,  painting,  carving,  casting, — it  mattered 
not  what, — were  all  works  done  by  thoughtful  and  happy 
men  ; and  the  illumination  of  the  volume,  and  the  carving 
and  casting  of  wall  and  gate,  employed,  not  thousands,  but 
millions,  of  true  and  noble  artists  over  all  Christian  lands. 
Men  in  the  same  position  are  now  left  utterly  without  intel- 
lectual power  or  pursuit,  and,  being  unhappy  in  their  work, 
they  rebel  against  it ; hence  one  of  the  worst  forms  of  Un- 
christian Socialism.  So  again,  there  being  now  no  nature  or 
variety  in  architecture,  the  multitude  are  not  interested  in  it ; 
therefore,  for  the  present,  they  have  lost  their  taste  for  art 
altogether,  so  that  you  can  no  longer  trust  sculpture  within 
their  reach.  Consider  the  innumerable  forms  of  evil  involved 
in  the  temper  and  taste  of  the  existing  populace  of  London 
or  Paris,  as  compared  with  the  temper  of  the  populace  of 
Florence,  when  the  quarter  of  Santa  Maria  Novella  received 
its  title  of  “Joyful  Quarter,”  from  the  rejoicings  of  the  multi- 
tude at  getting  a new  picture  into  their  church,  better  than 
the  old  ones  all  this  difference  bring  exclus.  ’ely  charge* 


AND  PAINTING. 


285 


able  on  the  renaissance  architecture.  And  then,  farther,  if  we 
remember,  not  only  the  revolutionary  ravage  of  sacred  archi- 
tecture, but  the  immeasurably  greater  destruction  effected  by 
the  renaissance  builders  and  their  satellites,  wherever  they 
came,  destruction  so  wide-spread  that  there  is  not  a town  in 
France  or  Italy  but  it  has  to  deplore  the  deliberate  overthrow 
of  more  than  half  its  noblest  monuments,  in  order  to  put  up 
Greek  porticoes  or  palaces  in  their  stead  ; adding  also  all  the 
blame  of  the  ignorance  of  the  meaner  kind  of  men,  operating 
in  thousands  of  miserable  abuses  upon  the  frescoes,  books, 
and  pictures,  as  the  architects’  hammers  did  on  the  carved 
work,  of  the  Middle  Ages*  ; and,  finally,  if  we  examine  the 
influence  which  the  luxury,  and,  still  more,  the  heathenism, 
joined  with  the  essential  dulness  of  these  schools,  have  had 
on  the  upper  classes  of  society,  it  will  ultimately  be  found 
that  no  expressions  are  energetic  enough  to  describe,  nor 
broad  enough  to  embrace,  the  enormous  moral  evils  which 
have  risen  from  them. 

I omitted,  in  preparing  the  preceding  lecture  for  the  press, 
a passage  referring  to  this  subject,  because  it  appeared  to  me, 
in  its  place,  hardly  explained  by  preceding  statements.  But 
I give  it  here  unaltered,  as  being,  in  sober  earnest,  but  too 
weak  to  characterise  the  tendencies  of  the  “ accursed  ” archi- 
tecture of  which  it  speaks. 

“Accursed,  I call  it,  with  deliberate  purpose.  It  needed 

* Nothing  appears  to  me  much  more  wonderful,  than  the  remorseless 
way  in  which  the  educated  ignorance,  even  of  the  present  day,  will 
j sweep  away  an  ancient  monument,  if  its  preservation  be  not  absolutely 
I consistent  with  immediate  convenience  or  economy.  Putting  aside  all 
antiquarian  considerations,  and  all  artistical  ones,  I wish  that  people 
I would  only  consider  the  steps,  and  the  weight  of  the  following  very 
I simple  argument.  You  allow  it  is  wrong  to  waste  time,  that  is,  voui 
j own  time  ; but  then  it  must  be  still  more  wrong  to  waste  other  people’s ; 

! for  you  have  some  right  to  your  own  time,  but  none  to  theirs.  Well, 

1 then,  if  it  is  thus  wrong  to  waste  the  time  of  the  living,  it  must  b« 
still  more  wrong  to  waste  the  time  of  the  dead  ; for  the  living  can  re- 
deem their  time,  the  dead  cannot.  But  you  waste  the  best  of  the  time 
of  the  dead  when  you  destroy  the  works  they  have  left  you  ; for  to 
j those  works  they  gave  the  best  of  their  time,  intending  them  for  iim 
mortality. 


286 


LECTURES  ON  ARCHITECTURE 


but  the  gathering  up  of  a Babylonish  garment  to  trouble 
Israel; — these  marble  garments  of  the  ancient  idols  of  the 
Gentiles,  how  many  have  they  troubled?  Gathered  out  of 
their  ruins  by  the  second  Bablyon, — gathered  by  the  Papal 
Church  in  the  extremity  of  her  sin  ; — raised  up  by  her,  not 
when  she  was  sending  forth  her  champions  to  preach  in  the 
highway,  and  pine  in  the  desert,  and  perish  in  the  fire,  but  in 
the  very  scarlet  fruitage  and  fulness  of  her  guilt,  when  her 
priests  vested  themselves  not  with  purple  only,  but  with  blood, 
and  bade  the  cups  of  their  feasting  foam  not  with  wine  only,  but 
with  hemlock  ; — raised  by  the  hands  of  the  Leos  and  the  Bor- 
gias,  raised  first  into  that  mighty  temple  where  the  seven  hills 
slope  to  the  Tiber,  that  marks  by  its  massy  dome  the  central 
spot,  where  Rome  has  reversed  the  words  of  Christ,  and,  as 
He  vivified  the  stone  to  the  apostleship,  she  petrifies  the  apos- 
tleship  into  the  stumbling  stone  ; — exalted  there  first  as  if  to 
mark  what  work  it  had  to  do,  it  went  forth  to  paralyse  or  to 
pollute,  and  wherever  it  came,  the  lustre  faded  from  the  streets 
of  our  cities,  the  grey  towers  and  glorious  arches  of  our 
abbeys  fell  by  the  river  sides,  the  love  of  nature  was  uprooted 
from  the  hearts  of  men,  base  luxuries  and  cruel  formalisms 
were  festered  and  frozen  into  them  from  their  youth  ; and  at 
last,  where,  from  his  fair  Gothic  chapel  beside  the  Seine,  the 
king  St.  Louis  had  gone  forth  followed  by  his  thousands  in 
the  cause  of  Christ,  another  king  was  dragged  forth  from  the 
gates  of  his  Renaissance  j>alace,*  to  die  by  the  hands  of  the 

* The  character  of  Renaissance  architecture,  and  the  spirit  which  dic- 
tated its  adoption,  may  he  remembered  as  having  been  centred  and 
symbolized  in  the  palace  of  Versailles:  whose  site  was  chosen  by  Louis 
the  Fourteenth,  in  order  that  from  thence  he  might  not  see  St.  Denis, 
the  burial  place  of  his  family.  The  cost  of  the  palace  in  27  years  is 
stated  in  the  “Builder ’’for  March  18th  of  this  year,  to  have  been 
3,246,0002.  money  of  that  period,  equal  to  about  seven  millions  now 
(900,0002.  having  been  expended  in  the  year  1686  alone).  The  build- 
ing is  thus  notably  illustrative  of  the  two  feelings  which  were  stated  in 
the  “Stones  of  Venice,”  to  be  peculiarly  characteristic  of  the  Renais- 
sance spirit,  the  Pride  of  State  and  Fear  of  Death.  Compare  the  horror 
of  Louis  the  Fourteenth  at  the  sight  of  the  tower  of  St.  Denis,  with  the 
feeling  which  prompted  the  Scaligeri  at  Verona  to  set  their  tombs  within 
fifteen  feet  of  their  palace  walls. 


AND  PAINTING . 


'28? 


thousands  of  his  people  gathered  in  another  crusade  ; or  what 
shall  that  be  called — whose  sign  was  not  the  cross,  but  the 
guillotine  ! ” 

I have  not  space  here  to  pursue  the  subject  farther,  nor 
shall  I be  able  to  write  anything  more  respecting  architecture 
for  some  time  to  come.  But  in  the  meanwhile,  I would  most 
earnestly  desire  to  leave  with  the  reader  this  one  subject  of 
thought — “ The  Life  of  the  Workman.”  For  it  is  singular, 
and  far  more  than  singular,  that  among  all  the  writers  who 
have  attempted  to  examine  the  principles  stated  in  the 
“ Stones  of  Venice,”  not  one*  has  as  yet  made  a single  com- 
ment on  what  was  precisely  and  accurately  the  most  impor- 
tant chapter  in  the  whole  book  ; namely,  the  description  of 
the  nature  of  Gothic  architecture,  as  involving  the  liberty  of 
the  workman  (vol.  ii.  cli.  vi.).  I had  hoped  that  whatever 
might  be  the  prejudices  of  modern  architects,  there  would 
have  been  found  some  among  them  quicksighted  enough  to 
see  the  bearings  of  this  principle,  and  generous  enough  to 
support  it.  There  has  hitherto  stood  forward  not  one. 

But  my  purpose  must  at  last  be  accomplished  for  all  this. 
The  labourer  among  the  gravestones  of  our  modern  architect- 
ure must  yet  be  raised  up,  and  become  a living  soul.  Before 
he  can  be  thus  raised,  the  whole  system  of  Greek  architecture, 
as  practised  in  the  present  day,  must  be  annihilated  ; but  it 
will  be  annihilated,  and  that  speedily.  For  truth  and  judg- 
ment are  its  declared  opposites,  and  against  these  nothing 
aver  finally  prevailed,  or  shall  prevail. 


LECTURE  III. 

TURNER,  AND  HIS  WORKS. 

My  object  this  evening  is  not  so  much  to  give  you  any  ao 
count  of  the  works  or  the  genius  of  the  great  painter  whom 
we  have  so  lately  lost  (which  it  would  require  rather  a year 

* An  article  in  Fraser’s  Magazine,  which  has  appeared  since  these 
sheets  were  sent  to  press,  forms  a solitary  exception. 


283 


LECTURES  ON  ARCHITECTURE 


than  an  hour  to  do),  as  to  give  you  some  idea  of  the  position 
which  his  works  hold  with  respect  to  the  landscape  of  other 
periods,  and  of  the  general  condition  and  prospects  of  the 
landscape  art  of  the  present  day.  I will  not  lose  time  in  pref- 
atory remarks,  as  I have  little  enough  at  any  rate,  but  will 
enter  abruptly  on  my  subject. 

You  are  all  of  you  well  aware  that  landscape  seems  hardly 
to  have  exercised  any  strong  influence,  as  such,  on  any  pagan 
nation,  or  pagan  artist.  I have  no  time  to  enter  into  any  de^ 
tails  on  this,  of  course,  most  intricate  and  difficult  subject ; 
but  I will  only  ask  you  to  observe,  that  wherever  natural 
scenery  is  alluded  to  by  the  ancients,  it  is  either  agricultu- 
rally, with  the  kind  of  feeling  that  a good  Scotch  farmer  has  ; 
sensually,  in  the  enjoyment  of  sun  or  shade,  cool  winds  or 
sweet  scents  ; fearfully,  in  a mere  vulgar  dread  of  rocks  and 
desolate  places,  as  compared  with  the  comfort  of  cities ; or, 
finally,  superstitiously,  in  the  personification  or  deification 
of  natural  powers  generally  with  much  degradation  of  their 
impressiveness,  as  in  the  paltry  fables  of  Ulysses  receiving 
the  winds  in  bags  from  iEolus,  and  of  the  Cyclops  ham- 
mering lightning  sharp  at  the  ends,  on  an  anvil.*  Of  course 
you  will  here  and  there  find  feeble  evidences  of  a higher  sen- 
sibility, chiefly,  I think,  in  Plato,  iEschylus,  Aristophanes,  and 
Virgil.  Homer,  though  in  the  epithets  he  applies  to  land- 
scape always  thoroughly  graphic,  uses  the  same  epithet  for 
rocks,  seas,  and  trees,  from  one  end  of  his  poem  to  the  other, 
evidently  without  the  smallest  interest  in  anything  of  the 
kind  *.  and  in  the  mass  of  heathen  writers,  the  absence  of  sen- 
sation on  these  subjects  is  singularly  painful.  For  instance, 
in  that,  to  my  mind,  most  disgusting  of  all  so-called  poems, 
the  journey  to  Brundusium,  you  remember  that  Horace  takes 

* Of  course  I do  not  mean  by  calling  these  fables  “paltry,”  to  dispute 
their  neatness,  ingenuity,  or  moral  depth  ; but  only  tlieir  want  of  ap- 
prehension of  the  extent  and  awfulness  of  the  phenomena  introduced. 
So  also,  in  denying  Homer’s  interest  in  nature,  I do  not  mean  to  deny 
his  accuracy  of  observation,  or  his  power  of  seizing  on  the  main  points 
oflandscape,  but  I deny  the  power  of  landscape  over  his  heart,  unless 
when  closely  associated  with,  and  altogether  subordinate  to,  some  hu- 
man interest. 


AND  PAINTING. 


289 


exactly  as  mucli  interest  in  the  scenery  he  is  passing  through, 
as  Sancho  Panza  would  have  done. 

You  will  find,  on  the  other  hand,  that  the  language  of  the 
Bible  is  specifically  distinguished  from  all  other  early  litera- 
ture, by  its  delight  in  natural  imagery  ; and  that  the  dealings 
of  God  with  his  people  are  calculated  peculiarly  to  awaken 
this  sensibility  within  them.  Out  of  the  monotonous  valley 
of  Egypt  they  are  instantly  taken  into  the  midst  of  the  might- 
iest mountain  scenery  in  the  peninsula  of  Arabia ; and  that 
scenery  is  associated  in  their  minds  with  the  immediate  mani- 
festation and  presence  of  the  Divine  Power ; so  that  moun- 
tains for  ever  afterwards  become  invested  with  a peculiar  sa- 
credness  in  their  minds  ; while  their  descendants  being  placed 
in  what  was  then  one  of  the  loveliest  districts  upon  the  earth, 
full  of  glorious  vegetation,  bounded  on  one  side  by  the  sea, 
on  the  north  by  “ that  goodly  mountain  ” Lebanon,  on  the 
south  and  east  by  deserts,  whose  barrenness  enhanced  by  their 
contrast  the  sense  of  the  perfection  of  beauty  in  their  own 
land,  they  became,  by  these  means,  and  by  the  touch  of  God’s 
own  hand  upon  their  hearts,  sensible  to  the  appeal  of  natural 
scenery  in  a way  in  which  no  other  people  were  at  the  time  * 
and  their  literature  is  full  of  expressions,  not  only  testifying 
a vivid  sense  of  the  power  of  nature  over  man,  but  showing 
that  sympathy  with  natural  things  themselves , as  if  they  had 
human  souls,  which  is  the  especial  characteristic  of  true  love 
of  the  works  of  God.  I intended  to  have  insisted  on  this 
sympathy  at  greater  length,  but  I found,  only"  two  or  three 
days  ago,  much  of  what  I had  to  say  to  yrou  anticipated  in  a 
little  book,  unpretending,  but  full  of  interest,  “The  Lamp 
and  the  Lantern,”  by  Dr.  James  Hamilton  ; and  I will  there- 
fore only  ask  you  to  consider  such  expressions  as  that  tender 
and  glorious  verse  in  Isaiah,  speaking  of  the  cedars  on  the 
mountains  as  rejoicing  over  the  fall  of  the  king  of  Assyria  : 
“Yea,  the  fir  trees  rejoice  at  thee,  and  the  cedars  of  Lebanon, 
saying,  Since  thou  art  gone  down  to  the  grave,  no  feller  is 
come  up  against  us.”  See  what  sympathy  there  is  here,  as  if 
with  the  very  hearts  of  the  trees  themselves.  So  also  in  the 
words  of  Christ,  in  his  personification  of  the  lilies : “ They 


290 


LECTURES  ON  ARCHITECTURE 


toil  not,  neither  do  they  spin.”  Consider  such  expressions  as, 
“ The  sea  saw  that,  and  fled,  Jordan  was  driven  back.  Tha 
mountains  skipped  like  rams ; and  the  little  hills  like  lambs.’* 
Try  to  And  anything  in  profane  writing  like  this ; and  note 
farther  that  the  whole  book  of  Job  appears  to  have  been 
chiefly  written  and  placed  in  the  inspired  volume  in  order  te 
show  the  value  of  natural  history,  and  its  power  on  the  human 
heart.  I cannot  pass  by  it  without  pointing  out  the  evidences 
of  the  beauty  of  the  country  that  Job  inhabited.* 

Observe,  first,  it  was  an  arable  country.  “The  oxen  were 
ploughing,  and  the  asses  feeding  beside  them.”  It  was  a pas- 
toral country : his  substance,  besides  camels  and  asses,  was 
7,000  sheep.  It  was  a mountain  country,  fed  by  streams  de- 
scending from  the  high  snows.  “My  brethren  have  dealt 
deceitfully  as  a brook,  and  as  the  stream  of  brooks  they  pass 
away  ; which  are  blackish  by  reason  of  the  ice,  and  wherein 
the  snow  is  hid : What  time  they  wax  warm  they  vanish : 
when  it  is  hot  they  are  consumed  out  of  their  place.”  Again  : 
“ If  I wash  myself  with  snow  water,  and  make  my  hands  never 
so  clean.”  Again:  “Drought  and  heat  consume  the  snow 
waters.”  It  was  a rocky  country,  with  forests  and  verdure 
rooted  in  the  rocks.  “His  branch  shooteth  forth  in  his  gar- 
den ; liis  roots  are  wrapped  about  the  heap,  and  seeth  the 
place  of  stones.”  Again  : “Thou  shalt  be  in  league  with  the 
stones  of  the  field.”  It  was  a place  visited,  like  the  valleys  of 
Switzerland,  by  convulsions  and  falls  of  mountains.  “ Surely 
the  mountain  falling  cometh  to  nought,  and  the  rock  is  re- 
moved out  of  his  place.”  “The  waters  wear  the  stones  : thou 
washest  away  the  things  which  grow  out  of  the  dust  of  the 
earth.”  “He  removeth  the  mountains  and  they  know  not: 
he  overtumeth  them  in  his  anger.”  “He  putteth  forth  his 
hand  upon  the  rock : he  overturneth  the  mountains  by  the 
roots : he  cutteth  out  rivers  among  the  rocks.”  I have  not 
time  to  go  farther  into  this  ; but  you  see  Job’s  country  was 
one  like  your  own,  full  of  pleasant  brooks  and  rivers,  rushing 
among  the  rocks,  and  of  all  other  sweet  and  noble  elements 

* This  passage,  respecting  the  book  of  Job,  was  omitted  in  the  deliv 
ery  of  the  Lecture,  for  want  of  time. 


AND  PAINTING. 


291 


of  landscape.  The  magnificent  allusions  to  natural  scenery 
throughout  the  book  are  therefore  calculated  to  touch  the 
heart  to  the  end  of  time. 

Then  at  the  central  point  of  Jewish  prosperity,  you  have 
the  first  great  naturalist  the  world  ever  saw,  Solomon  ; not 
permitted,  indeed,  to  anticipate,  in  writing,  the  discoveries 
of  modern  times,  but  so  gifted  as  to  show  us  that  heavenly 
wisdom  is  manifested  as  much  in  the  knowledge  of  the  hyssop 
that  springeth  out  of  the  wall  as  in  political  and  philosophical 
speculation. 

The  books  of  the  Old  Testament,  as  distinguished  from  all 
other  early  writings,  are  thus  prepared  for  an  everlasting 
influence  over  humanity ; and,  finally,  Christ  himself,  setting 
the  concluding  example  to  the  conduct  and  thoughts  of  men, 
spends  nearly  his  whole  life  in  the  fields,  the  mountains,  or 
the  small  country  villages  of  Judea  ; and  in  the  very  closing 
scenes  of  his  life,  will  not  so  much  as  sleep  within  the  walls 
of  Jerusalem,  but  rests  at  the  little  village  of  Bethphage, 
walking  in  the  morning,  and  returning  in  the  evening,  through 
the  peaceful  avenues  of  the  mount  of  Olives,  to  and  from  his 
work  of  teaching  in  the  temple. 

It  would  thus  naturally  follow,  both  from  the  general  tone 
and  teaching  of  the  Scriptures,  and  from  the  example  of  our 
Lord  himself,  that  wherever  Christianity  was  preached  and 
accepted,  there  would  be  an  immediate  interest  awakened  in 
the  works  of  God,  as  seen  in  the  natural  world  ; and,  accord- 
ingly, this  is  the  second  universal  and  distinctive  character  of 
Christian  art,  as  distinguished  from  all  pagan  work,  the  first 
being  a peculiar  spirituality  in  its  conception  of  the  human 
form,  preferring  holiness  of  expression  and  strength  of  char- 
acter, to  beauty  of  features  or  of  body,  and  the  second,  as  I 
say,  its  intense  fondness  for  natural  objects — animals,  leaves 
and  flowers, — inducing  an  immediate  transformation  of  the 
cold  and  lifeless  pagan  ornamentation  into  vivid  imagery  of 
nature.  Of  course  this  manifestation  of  feeling  was  at  first 
checked  by  the  circumstances  under  which  the  Christian  re- 
ligion was  disseminated.  The  art  of  the  first  three  centuries 
is  entirely  subordinate, — restrained  partly  by  persecution, 


292' 


LECTURES  ON  ARCHITECTURE 


partly  by  a high  spirituality,  which  cared  much  more  about 
preaching  than  painting  ; and  then  when,  under  Constantine, 
Christianity  became  the  religion  of  the  Roman  empire,  myr- 
iads of  persons  gave  the  aid  of  their  wealth  and  of  their  art 
to  the  new  religion,  who  were  Christians  in  nothing  but  the 
name,  and  who  decorated  a Christian  temple  just  as  they 
would  have  decorated  a pagan  one,  merely  because  the  new 
religion  had  become  Imperial.  Then,  just  as  the  new  art  was 
beginning  to  assume  a distinctive  form,  down  came  the 
northern  barbarians  upon  it ; and  all  their  superstitions  had 
to  be  leavened  with  it,  and  all  their  hard  hands  and  hearts 
softened  by  it,  before  their  art  could  appear  in  anything  like 
a characteristic  form.  The  warfare  in  which  Europe  wras 
perpetually  plunged  retarded  this  development  for  ages  ; but 
it  steadily  and  gradually  prevailed,  working  from  the  eighth 
to  the  eleventh  century  like  a seed  in  the  ground,  showing 
little  signs  of  life,  but  still,  if  carefully  examined,  changing 
essentially  every  day  and  every  hour  : at  last,  in  the  twelfth 
century,  the  blade  appears  above  the  black  earth  j in  the 
thirteenth,  the  plant  is  in  full  leaf. 

I begin,  then,  with  the  thirteenth  century,  and  must  now 
make  to  you  a general  assertion,  which,  if  you  will  note  down 
and  examine  at  your  leisure,  you  will  find  true  and  useful, 
though  I have  not  time  at  present  to  give  you  full  demonstra- 
tion of  it. 

I say,  then,  that  the  art  of  the  thirteenth  century  is  the 
foundation  of  all  art, — not  merely  the  foundation,  but  the 
root  of  it ; that  is  to  say,  succeeding  art  is  not  merely  built 
upon  it,  but  was  all  comprehended  in  it,  and  is  developed 
out  of  it.  Passing  this  great  century  we  find  three  successive 
branches  developed  from  it,  in  each  of  the  three  following 
centuries.  The  fourteenth  century  is  pre-eminently  the  age 
of  Thought , the  fifteenth  the  age  of  Drawing , and  the  six- 
teenth the  age  of  Painting. 

Observe,  first,  the  fourteenth  century  is  pre-eminently  the 
age  of  thought.  It  begins  with  the  first  words  of  the  poem 
of  Dante  ; — and  all  the  great  pictorial  poems — the  mighty 
series  of  works  in  which  everything  is  done  to  relate,  but 


AND  PAINTING . 


293 


nothing  to  imitate — belong  to  this  century.  I should  only 
confuse  you  by  giving  you  the  names  of  marvellous  artists, 
most  of  them  little  familiar  to  British  ears,  who  adorned  this 
century  in  Italy  ; but  you  will  easily  remember  it  as  the  age 
of  Dante  and  Giotto, — the  age  of  Thought. 

The  men  of  the  succeeding  century  (the  fifteenth)  felt  that 
they  could  not  rival  their  predecessors  in  invention  but  might 
excel  them  in  execution.  Original  thoughts  belonging  to  this 
century  are  comparatively  rare  ; even  Baphael  and  Michael 
Angelo  themselves  borrowed  all  their  principal  ideas  and 
plans  of  pictures  from  their  predecessors  ; but  they  executed 
them  with  a precision  up  to  that  time  unseen.  You  must 
understand  by  the  word  “ drawiiig,”  the  perfect  rendering  of 
forms,  whether  in  sculpture  or  painting ; and  then  remember 
the  fifteenth  century  as  the  age  of  Leonardo,  Michael  Angelo, 
Lorenzo  Ghiberti,  and  Baphael, — pre-eminently  the  age  of 
Drawing. 

The  sixteenth  century  produced  the  four  greatest  Painters, 
that  is  to  say,  managers  of  colour,  whom  the  world  has  seen  ', 
namely,  Tintoret,  Paul  Veronese,  Titian,  and  Correggio.  I 
need  net  say  more  to  justify  my  calling  it  the  age  of  Paint- 
ing. 

This,  then,  being  the  state  of  things  respecting  art  in  gen- 
eral, let  us  next  trace  the  career  of  landscape  through  these 
centuries. 

It  was  only  towards  the  close  of  the  thirteenth  century  that  fig- 
ure painting  began  to  assume  so  perfect  a condition  as  to  require 
some  elaborate  suggestion  of  landscape  background.  Up  to 
that  time,  if  any  natural  object  had  to  be  represented,  it  was 
done  in  an  entirely  conventional  w^ay,  as  you  see  it  upon  Greek 
vases,  or  in  a Chinese  porcelain  pattern  ; an  independent  tree 
or  flower  being  set  upon  the  white  ground,  or  ground  of  any 
colour,  wherever  there  was  a vacant  space  for  it,  without  the 
smallest  attempt  to  imitate  the  real  colours  and  relations  of  the 
earth  and  sky  about  it.  But  at  the  close  of  the  thirteenth  cen- 
tury, Giotto,  and  in  the  course  of  the  fourteenth,  Orcagna, 
sought,  for  the  first  time,  to  give  some  resemblance  to  nature 
in  their  backgrounds,  and  introduce  behind  their  figures  pieces 


294 


LECTURES  ON  ARCHITECTURE 


of  true  landscape,  formal  enough  still,  but  complete  in  in  ten* 
tion,  having  foregrounds  and  distances,  sky  and  water,  forests 
and  mountains,  carefully  delineated,  not  exactly  in  their  true 
colour,  but  yet  in  colour  approximating  to  the  truth.  The 
system  which  they  introduced  (for  though  in  many  points  en- 
riched above  the  work  of  earlier  ages,  the  Orcagna  and  Giotto 
landscape  was  a very  complete  piece  of  recipe)  was  observed 
for  a long  period  by  their  pupils,  and  may  be  thus  briefly 
described  : — The  sky  is  always  pure  blue,  paler  at  the  horizon, 
and  with  a few  streaky  white  clouds  in  it ; the  ground  is  green 
even  to  the  extreme  distance,  with  brown  rocks  projecting 
from  it;  water  is  blue  streaked  with  white.  The  trees  are 
nearly  always  composed  of  clusters  of  their  proper  leaves  re- 
lieved on  a black  or  dark  ground,  thus  {fig.  20.).*  And  ob- 
serve carefully,  with  respect  to  the  complete  drawing  of  the 
leaves  on  this  tree,  and  the  smallness  of  their  number,  the 
real  distinction  between  noble  conventionalism  and  false  con- 
ventionalism. You  will  often  hear  modern  architects  defend- 
ing their  monstrous  ornamentation  on  the  ground  that  it  is 
“conventional,”  and  that  architectural  ornament  ought  to  be 
conventionalised.  Remember  when  you  hear  this,  that  noble 
conventionalism  is  not  an  agreement  between  the  artist  and 
spectator  that  the  one  shall  misrepresent  nature  sixty  times 
over,  and  the  other  believe  the  misrepresentation  sixty  times 
over,  but  it  is  an  agreement  that  certain  means  and  limitations 
being  prescribed,  only  that  kind  of  truth  is  to  be  expected 
which  is  consistent  with  those  means.  For  instance,  if  Sir 
Joshua  Reynolds  had  been  talking  to  a friend  about  the  char- 
acter of  a face,  and  there  had  been  nothing  in  the  room  but 
a deal  table  and  an  inkbottle — and  no  pens — Sir  Joshua  would 
have  dipped  his  finger  in  the  ink,  and  painted  a portrait 
on  the  table  with  his  finger, — and  a noble  portrait  too,  cer- 
tainly not  delicate  in  outline,  nor  representing  any  of  the 

* Having  no  memoranda  of  my  own  taken  from  Giotto's  landscape,  I 
had  this  tree  copied  from  an  engraving  ; hut  I imagine  the  rude  termi- 
nation of  the  stems  to  he  a misrepresentation.  Fig.  21  is  accurately 
copied  from  an  MS.,  certainly  executed  between  1250  and  1270,  audit 
more  truly  characteristic  of  the  early  manner. 


Trees,  as  Drawn  in  the  Thirteenth  Century. 


f 


AND  PAINTING. 


295 


qualities  of  the  face  dependent  on  rich  outline,  but  getting  as 
much  of  the  face  as  in  that  manner  was  attainable.  That  is 
noble  conventionalism,  and  Egyptian  work  on  granite,  or  illu- 
minator’s work  in  glass,  is  all  conventional  in  the  same  sense, 
but  not  conventionally  false.  The  two  noblest  and  truest 
carved  lions  I have  ever  seen,  are  the  two  granite  ones  in  the 
Egyptian  room  of  the  British  Museum,  and  yet  in  them,  the 
lions’  manes  and  beards  are  represented  by  rings  of  solid 
rock,  as  smooth  as  a mirror  ! 

There  are  indeed  one  or  two  other  conditions  of  noble  con- 
ventionalism, noticed  more  fully  in  the  Addenda  to  this  Lect- 
ure ; but  you  will  find  that  they  always  consist  in  stopping 
short  of  nature,  not  in  falsifying  nature  ; and  thus  in  Giotto’s 
foliage,  he  stops  short  of  the  quantity  of  leaves  on  the  real 
tree,  but  he  gives  you  the  form  of  the  leaves  represented  with 
perfect  truth.  His  foreground  also  is  nearly  always  occupied 
by  flowers  and  herbage,  carefully  and  individually  painted 
from  nature  ; while,  although  thus  simple  in  plan,  the  ar- 
rangements of  line  in  these  landscapes  of  course  show  the 
influence  of  the  master-mind,  and  sometimes,  where  the  story 
requires  it,  we  find  the  usual  formulae  overleaped,  and  Giotto 
at  Avignon  painting  the  breakers  of  the  sea  on  a steep  shore 
with  great  care,  while  Orcagna,  in  liis  triumph  of  Death,  has 
painted  a thicket  of  brambles  mixed  with  teazles,  in  a manner 
worthy  of  the  best  days  of  landscape  art. 

Now  from  the  landscape  of  these  two  men  to  the  landscape 
of  Raphael,  Leonardo,  and  Perugino,  the  advance  consists 
principally  in  two  great  steps  : The  first,  that  distant  objects 
were  more  or  less  invested  with  a blue  colour, — the  second, 
that  trees  were  no  longer  painted  with  a black  ground,  but 
with  a rich  dark  brown,  or  deep  green.  From  Giotto’s  old 
age,  to  the  youth  of  Raphael,  the  advance  in  and  knowledge  of, 
landscape,  consisted  of  no  more  than  these  two  simple  steps ; 
but  the  execution  of  landscape  became  infinitely  more  perfect 
and  elaborate.  All  the  flowers  and  leaves  in  the  foreground 
were  worked  out  with  the  same  perfection  as  the  features  of 
the  figures  ; in  the  middle  distance  the  brown  trees  were 
most  delicately  defined  against  the  sky  ; the  blue  mountains 


296 


LECTURES  ON  ARCHITECTURE 


in  the  extreme  distance  were  exquisitely  thrown  into  aerial 
gradations,  and  the  sky  and  clouds  were  perfect  in  transpar- 
ency and  softness.  But  still  there  is  no  real  advance  in  knowl- 
edge of  natural  objects.  The  leaves  and  flowers  are,  indeed, 
admirably  painted,  and  thrown  into  various  intricate  group- 
ings, such  as  Giotto  could  not  have  attempted,  but  the  rocks 
and  water  are  still  as  conventional  and  imperfect  as  ever,  ex- 
cept only  in  colour : the  forms  of  rock  in  Leonardo’s  celebrated 
ee  Yierge  aux  Rockers  ” are  literally  no  better  than  those  on  a 
china  plate.  Fig.  22.  shows  a portion  of  them  in  mere  out- 
line, with  one  cluster  of  the  leaves  above,  and  the  distant 
“ideal”  mountains.  On  the  whole,  the  most  satisfactory 
work  of  the  period  is  that  which  most  resembles  missal  paint- 
ing, that  is  to  say,  which  is  fullest  of  beautiful  flowers  and 
animals  scattered  among  the  landscape,  in  the  old  indepen- 
dent way,  like  the  birds  upon  a screen.  The  landscape  of 
Benozzo  Gozzoli  is  exquisitely  rich  in  incident  of  this  kind. 

The  first  man  who  entirely  broke  through  the  convention- 
ality of  his  time,  and  painted  pare  landscape,  was  Masaccio, 
but  he  died  too  young  to  effect  the  revolution  of  which  his 
genius  was  capable.  It  was  left  for  other  men  to  accomplish, 
namely,  for  Correggio  and  Titian.  These  two  painters  were 
the  first  who  relieved  the  foregrounds  of  them  landscape  from 
the  grotesque,  quaint,  and  crowded  formalism  of  the  early 
painters  ; and  gave  a close  approximation  to  the  forms  of  nat- 
ure in  all  things  ; retaining,  however,  thus  much  of  the  old 
s}rstem,  that  the  distances  were  for  the  most  part  painted  in 
deep  ultramarine  blue,  the  foregrounds  in  rich  green  and 
brown ; there  were  no  effects  of  sunshine  and  shadow,  but  a 
generally  quiet  glow  over  the  whole-scene  ; and  the  clouds, 
though  now  rolling  in  irregular  masses,  and  sometimes  richly 
involved  among  the  hills,  were  never  varied  in  conception,  or 
studied  from  nature.  There  were  no  changes  of  weather  in 
them,  no  rain  clouds  or  fair-weather  clouds,  nothing  but  va- 
rious shapes  of  the  cumulus  or  cirrus,  introduced  for  the  sake 
of  light  on  the  deep  blue  sky.  Tintoret  and  Bonifazio  intro- 
duced more  natural  effects  into  this  monotonous  landscape  : 
in  their  works  we  meet  with  showers  of  rain,  with  rainbows, 


FiQ*.  22. 


PLATE  XIV.— (Page  296-Vol.  V.) 

Rocks,  as  Drawn  by  the  School  of  Leonardo  da  Vtnci. 

/ 


AND  PAINTING. 


297 


sunsets,  bright  reflections  in  water,  and  so  on  ; but  still  very 
subordinate,  and  carelessly  worked  out,  so  as  not  to  justify 
us  in  considering  their  landscape  as  forming  a class  by  it- 
self. 

Fig.  23.,  which  is  a branch  of  a tree  from  the  background 
of  Titian’s  “St.  Jerome,”  at  Milan,  compared  with  fig.  20., 
will  give  you  a distinct  idea  of  the  kind  of  change  which  took 
place  from  the  time  of  Giotto  to  that  of  Titian,  and  you  will 
find  that  this  whole  range  of  landscape  may  be  conveniently 
classed  in  three  divisions,  namely,  Giottesque , Leomrdesque , 
and  Titianesque  ; the  Giottesque  embracing  nearly  all  the  work 
of  the  fourteenth,  the  Leonardesque  that  of  the  fifteenth,  and 
the  Titianesque  that  of  the  sixteenth  century.  Now  you  see 
there  remained  a fourth  step  to  be  taken, — the  doing  away  with 
conventionalism  altogether,  so  as  to  create  the  perfect  art  of 
landscape  painting.  The  course  of  the  mind  of  Europe  was 
to  do  this;  but  at  the  very  moment  when  it  ought  to  have 
been  done,  the  art  of  all  civilised  nations  was  paralysed  at 
once  by  the  operation  of  the  poisonous  elements  of  infidelity 
and  classical  learning  together,  as  I have  endeavoured  to 
show  elsewhere.  In  this  paralysis,  like  a soldier  shot  as  he  is 
just  gaining  an  eminence,  the  art  of  the  seventeenth  century 
struggled  forward,  and  sank  upon  the  spot  it  had  been  en- 
deavouring to  attain.  The  step  which  should  have  freed 
landscape  from  conventionalism  was  actually  taken  by  Claude 
and  Salvator  Rosa,  but  taken  in  a state  of  palsy, — taken  so 
as  to  lose  far  more  than  was  gained.  For  up  to  this  time, 
no  painter  ever  had  thought  of  drawing  anything,  pebble  or 
blade  of  grass,  or  tree  or  mountain,  but  as  well  and  distinctly 
as  he  could  ; and  if  he  could  not  draw  it  completely,  he  drew 
it  at  least  in  a way  which  should  thoroughly  show  his  knowl- 
edge and  feeling  of  it.  For  instance,  you  saw  in  the  oak  tree 
of  the  Giottesque  period,  that  the  main  points  of  the  tree, 
the  true  shape  of  leaf  and  acorn,  were  all  there,  perfectly  and 
carefully  articulated,  and  so  they  continued  to  be  down  to  the 
time  of  Tintoret ; both  he  and  Titian  working  out  the  separate 
leaves  of  their  foliage  with  the  most  exquisite  botanical  care. 
But  now  observe  ; as  Christianity  had  brought  this  love  of  nat- 


298 


LECTURES  ON  ARCHITECTURE 


ure  into  Paganism,  the  return  of  Paganism  in  the  shape  of  clas« 
sical  learning  at  once  destroyed  this  love  of  nature  ; and  at  the 
moment  when  Claude  and  Salvator  made  the  final  effort  to 
paint  the  effects  of  nature  faithfully,  the  objects  of  nature  had 
ceased  to  be  regarded  with  affection  ; so  that,  while  people 
were  amused  and  interested  by  the  new  effects  of  sunsets 
over  green  seas,  and  of  tempests  bursting  on  rocky  moun- 
tains, which  were  introduced  by  the  rising  school,  they  entirely 
ceased  to  require  on  the  one  side,  or  bestow  on  the  other, 
that  care  and  thought  by  which  alone  the  beauty  of  nature 
can  be  understood.  The  older  painting  had  resembled  a 
careful  and  deeply  studied  diagram,  illustrative  of  the  most 
important  facts  ; it  was  not  to  be  understood  or  relished 
without  application  of  serious  thought ; on  the  contrary,  it 
developed  and  addressed  the  highest  powers  of  mind  belong- 
ing to  the  human  race  ; while  the  Claude  and  Salvator  paint- 
ing was  like  a scene  in  a theatre,  viciously  and  falsely  painted 
throughout,  and  presenting  a deceptive  appearance  of  truth 
to  nature  ; understood,  as  far  as  it  went,  in  a moment,  but 
conveying  no  accurate  knowledge  of  anything,  and,  in  all  its 
operations  on  the  mind  unhealthy,  hopeless,  and  profitless. 

It  was,  however,  received  with  avidity ; for  this  main  rea- 
son, that  the  architecture,  domestic  life  and  manners  of  the 
period  were  gradually  getting  more  and  more  artificial ; as 
I showed  you  last  evening,  all  natural  beauty  had  ceased  to 
be  permitted  in  architectural  decoration,  while  the  habits  of 
society  led  them  more  and  more  to  live,  if  possible,  in  cities  ; 
and  the  dress,  language,  and  manners  of  men  in  general  were 
approximating  to  that  horrible  and  lifeless  condition  in 
which  you  find  them  j ust  before  the  outbreak  of  the  French 
Revolution. 

Now,  observe  : exactly  as  hoops,  and  starch,  and  false  hair, 
and  all  that  in  mind  and  heart  these  things  typify  and  betray, 
as  these,  I say,  gained  upon  men,  there  was  a necessary  re- 
action in  favour  of  the  natural.  Men  had  never  lived  so  ut- 
terly in  defiance  of  the  laws  of  nature  before  ; but  they  could 
not  do  this  without  feeling  a strange  charm  in  that  which 
they  defied ; and,  accordingly,  we  find  this  reactionary  senti- 


Fig.  23. 

PLATE  XV.- (Page  298— Vol.  V.) 
Boughs  of  Trees,  after  Titian. 


AND  PAINTING . 


299 


ment  expressing  itself  in  a base  school  of  what  was  called 
pastoral  poetry  ; that  is  to  say,  poetry  written  in  praise  of  the 
country,  by  men  who  lived  in  coffee-houses  and  on  the  MalL 
The  essence  of  pastoral  poetry  is  the  sense  of  strange  delight- 
fulness  in  grass,  which  is  occasionally  felt  by  a man  who  has 
seldom  set  his  foot  on  it  ; it  is  essentially  the  poetry  of  the 
cockney,  and  for  the  most  part  corresponds  in  its  aim  and 
rank,  as  compared  with  other  literature,  to  the  porcelain 
shepherds  and  shepherdesses  on  a chimney-piece  as  com- 
pared with  great  works  of  sculpture. 

Of  course  all  good  poetry,  descriptive  of  rural  life,  is  essen- 
tially pastoral,  or  has  the  effect  of  the  pastoral,  on  the  minds 
of  men  living  in  cities  ; but  the  class  of  poetry  which  I mean, 
and  which  you  probably  understand,  by  the  term  pastoral,  is 
that  in  which  a farmer’s  girl  is  spoken  of  as  a “nymph,”  and 
a farmer’s  boy  as  a “ swain,”  and  in  which,  throughout,  a 
ridiculous  and  unnatural  refinement  is  supposed  to  exist  in 
rural  life,  merely  because  the  poet  himself  has  neither  had 
the  courage  to  endure  its  hardships,  nor  the  wit  to  conceive 
its  realities.  If  you  examine  the  literature  of  the  past  cen- 
tury, you  will  find  that  nearly  all  its  expressions,  having  ref- 
erence to  the  country,  show  something  of  this  kind ; either 
a foolish  sentimentality,  or  a morbid  fear,  both  of  course 
coupled  with  the  most  curious  ignorance.  You  will  find  all 
its  descriptive  expressions  at  once  vague  and  monotonous. 
Brooks  are  always  “purling;”  birds  always  “warbling;” 
mountains  always  “ lift  their  horrid  peaks  above  the  clouds  ; ” 
vales  always  “ are  lost  in  the  shadow  of  gloomy  woods  ; ” a 
few  more  distinct  ideas  about  haymaking  and  curds  and 
cream,  acquired  in  the  neighbourhood  of  Richmond  Bridge, 
serving  to  give  an  occasional  appearance  of  freshness  to  the 
catalogue  of  the  sublime  and  beautiful  which  descended  from 
poet  to  poet ; while  a few  true  pieces  of  pastoral,  like  the 
“Vicar  of  Wakefield,”  and  Walton’s  “Angler,”  relieved  the 
general  waste  of  dulness.  Even  in  these  better  productions, 
nothing  is  more  remarkable  than  the  general  conception  of 
the  country  merely  as  a series  of  green  fields,  and  the  com- 
bined ignorance  and  dread  of  more  sublime  scenery  ; of 


300 


LECTURES  ON  ARCHITECTURE 


which  the  mysteries  and  dangers  were  enhanced  by  the 
difficulties  of  travelling  at  the  period.  Thus  in  Walton’s 
“ Angler,”  you  have  a meeting  of  two  friends,  one  a Derby- 
shire man,  the  other  a lowland  traveller,  who  is  as  much 
alarmed,  and  uses  nearly  as  many  expressions  of  astonish- 
ment, at  having  to  go  down  a steep  hill  and  ford  a brook,  as 
a traveller  uses  now  at  crossing  the  glacier  of  the  Col  de 
Geant.  I am  not  sure  whether  the  difficulties  which,  until 
late  years,  have  lain  in  the  way  of  peaceful  and  convenient 
travelling,  ought  not  to  have  great  weight  assigned  to  them 
among  the  other  causes  of  the  temper  of  the  century  ; but  be 
that  as  it  may,  if  you  will  examine  the  whole  range  of  its  lit- 
erature— keeping  this  point  in  view — I am  well  persuaded 
that  you  will  be  struck  most  forcibly  by  the  strange  deadness 
to  the  higher  sources  of  landscape  sublimity  which  is  mingled 
with  the  morbid  pastoralism.  The  love  of  fresh  air  and  green 
grass  forced  itself  upon  the  animal  natures  of  men  ; but  that 
of  the  sublimer  features  of  scenery  had  no  place  in  minds 
whose  chief  powers  had  been  repressed  by  the  formalisms  of 
the  age.  And  although  in  the  second-rate  writers  continually, 
and  in  the  first-rate  ones  occasionally,  you  find  an  affectation 
of  interest  in  mountains,  clouds,  and  forests,  yet  whenever 
they  write  from  their  heart,  you  will  find  an  utter  absence  of 
feeling  respecting  anything  beyond  gardens  and  grass.  Ex- 
amine, for  instance,  the  novels  of  Smollett,  Fielding,  and 
Sterne,  the  comedies  of  Moliere,  and  the  writings  of  Johnson 
and  Addison,  and  I do  not  think  you  will  find  a single  expres- 
sion of  true  delight  in  sublime  nature  in  any  one  of  them. 
Perhaps  Sterne’s  “ Sentimental  Journey,”  in  its  total  absence 
of  sentiment  on  any  subject  but  humanity,  and  its  entire  want 
of  notice  of  anything  at  Geneva,  which  might  not  as  well  have 
been  seen  at  Coxwold,  is  the  most  striking  instance  I could 
give  you  ; and  if  you  compare  with  this  negation  of  feeling 
on  one  side,  the  interludes  of  Moliere  in  which  shepherds  and 
shepherdesses  are  introduced  in  court  dress,  you  will  have  a 
very  accurate  conception  of  the  general  spirit  of  the  age. 

It  was  in  such  a state  of  society  that  the  landscape  of 
Claude,  Gaspar  Poussin,  and  Salvator  Rosa  attained  its 


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301 


reputation.  It  is  the  complete  expression  on  canvas  of  the 
spirit  of  the  time.  Claude  embodies  the  foolish  pastoralism, 
Salvator  the  ignorant  terror,  and  Gaspar  the  dull  and  affected 
erudition. 

It  was,  however,  altogether  impossible  that  this  state  of 
things  could  long  continue.  The  age  which  had  buried  itself 
in  formalism  grew  weary  at  last  of  the  restraint ; and  the  ap< 
proach  of  a new  asra  was  marked  by  the  appearance,  and  the 
enthusiastic  reception,  of  writers  who  took  true  delight  in 
those  wild  scenes  of  nature  which  had  so  long  been  despised. 

I think  the  first  two  writers  in  whom  the  symptoms  of  a 
change  are  strongly  manifested  are  Mrs.  Radcliffe  and  Rous- 
seau ; in  both  of  whom  the  love  of  natural  scenery,  though 
mingled  in  the  one  case  with  what  was  merely  dramatic,  and 
in  the  other  with  much  that  was  pitifully  morbid  or  vicious, 
was  still  itself  genuine,  and  intense,  differing  altogether  in 
character  from  any  sentiments  previously  traceable  in  litera- 
ture. And  then  rapidly  followed  a group  of  writers,  who 
expressed,  in  various  ways,  the  more  powerful  or  more  pure 
feeling  which  had  now  become  one  of  the  strongest  instincts 
of  the  age.  Of  these,  the  principal  is  your  own  Walter  Scott. 
Many  writers,  indeed,  describe  nature  more  minutely  and 
more  profoundly  ; but  none  show  in  higher  intensity  the  pe- 
culiar passion  for  what  is  majestic  or  lovely  in  wild  nature,  to 
which  I am  now  referring.  The  whole  of  the  poem  of  the 
“ Lady  of  the  Lake  ” is  written  with  almost  a boyish  enthu- 
siasm for  rocks,  and  lakes,  and  cataracts ; the  early  novels 
show  the  same  instinct  in  equal  strength  wherever  he  ap- 
proaches Highland  scenery ; and  the  feeling  is  mingled, 
observe,  with  a most  touching  and  affectionate  appreciation 
of  the  Gothic  architecture,  in  which  alone  he  found  the  ele= 
ments  of  natural  beauty  seized  by  art ; so  that,  to  this  day, 
his  descriptions  of  Melrose  and  Holy  Island  Cathedral,  in  the 
“Lay  of  the  Last  Minstrel  ” and  “ Marmion,”  as  well  as  of 
the  ideal  abbeys  in  the  “Monastery”  and  “ Antiquary,”  to- 
gether with  those  of  Caerlaverock  and  Lochleven  Castles  in 
“ Guy  Mannering  ” and  “ The  Abbot,”  remain  the  staple  pos- 
sessions and  text-books  of  all  travellers,  not  so  much  for  theii 


302 


LECTURES  ON  ARCHITECTURE 


beauty  or  accuracy,  as  for  their  exactly  expressing  that  degree 
of  feeling  with  which  most  men  in  this  century  can  sympathise. 

Together  with  Scott  appeared  the  group  of  poets, — Byron, 
Wordsworth,  Keats,  Shelley,  and,  finally,  Tennyson, — differing 
widely  in  moral  principles  and  spiritual  temper,  but  all  agree- 
ing more  or  less  in  this  love  for  natural  scenery. 

Now,  you  will  ask  me — and  you  will  ask  me  most  reason* 
ably — how  this  love  of  nature  in  modern  days  can  be  con* 
nected  with  Christianity,  seeing  it  is  as  strong  in  the  infidel 
Shelley  as  in  the  sacred  Wordsworth.  Yes,  and  it  is  found  in 
far  worse  men  than  Shelley.  Shelley  was  an  honest  unbeliever, 
and  a man  of  warm  affections  ; but  this  new  love  of  nature  is 
found  in  the  most  reckless  and  unprincipled  of  the  French 
novelists, — in  Eugene  Sue,  in  Dumas,  in  George  Sand, — and 
that  intensely.  How  is  this  ? Simply  because  the  feeling  is 
reactionary  ; and,  in  this  phase  of  it,  common  to  the  diseased 
mind  as  well  as  to  the  healthy  one. ' A man  dying  in  the  fever 
of  intemperance  will  cry  out  for  water  and  that  with  a bitterer 
thirst  than  a man  whose  healthy  frame  naturally  delights  in 
the  mountain  spring  more  than  in  the  wine  cup.  The  water 
is  not  dishonoured  by  the  thirst  of  the  diseased,  nor  is  nature 
dishonoured  by  the  love  of  the  unworthy.  That  love  is,  per- 
haps, the  only  saving  element  in  their  minds  ; and  it  still 
remains  an  indisputable  truth  that  the  love  of  nature  is  a 
characteristic  of  the  Christian  heart,  just  as  the  hunger  for 
healthy  food  is  characteristic  of  the  healthy  frame. 

In  order  to  meet  this  new  feeling  for  nature,  there  necessa- 
rily arose  a new  school  of  landscape  painting.  That  school, 
like  the  literature  to  wThich  it  corresponded,  had  many  weak 
and  vicious  elements  mixed  with  its  noble  ones ; it  had  its 
Mrs.  Radcliffes  and  Rousseaus,  as  well  as  its  Wordsworths  ; 
but,  on  the  whole,  the  feeling  with  which  Robson  drew  moun- 
tains, and  Prout  architecture,  with  which  Fielding  draws 
moors,  and  Stanfield  sea — is  altogether  pure,  true,  and  pre- 
cious, as  compared  with  that  which  suggested  the  landscape 
of  the  seventeenth  century. 

Now  observe,  how  simple  the  whole  subject  becomes. 
£ou  have,  first,  your  great  ancient  landscape  divided  into  its 


AND  PAINTING. 


303 


three  periods — Giottesque,  Leonardesque,  Titianesque.  TheD 
you  have  a great  gap,  full  of  nonentities  and  abortions ; a 
gulpk  of  foolishness,  into  the  bottom  of  which  you  may  throw 
Claude  and  Salvator,  neither  of  them  deserving  to  give  a name 
to  anything.  Call  it  “pastoral”  landscape,  “guarda  epassa,” 
and  then  you  have,  lastly,  the  pure,  wholesome,  simple,  mod- 
ern  landscape.  You  want  a name  for  that : I will  give  you 
one  in  a moment ; for  the  whole  character  and  power  of  that 
landscape  is  originally  based  on  the  work  of  one  man. 

Joseph  Mallord  William  Turner  was  born  in  Maiden  Lane, 
London,  about  eighty  years  ago.  The  register  of  his  birth 
was  burned,  and  his  age  at  his  death  could  only  be  arrived  at 
by  conjecture.  He  was  the  son  of  a barber  ; and  his  father 
intended  him,  very  properly,  for  his  own  profession.  The 
bent  of  the  boy  was,  however,  soon  manifested,  as  is  always 
the  case  in  children  of  extraordinary  genius,  too  strongly  to 
be  resisted,  and  a sketch  of  a coat  of  arms  on  a silver  salver, 
made  while  his  father  was  shaving  a customer,  obtained  for 
him,  in  reluctant  compliance  with  the  admiring  customer’s 
advice,  the  permission  to  follow  art  as  a profession. 

He  had,  of  course,  the  usual  difficulties  of  young  artists  to 
encounter,  and  they  were  then  far  greater  than  they  are  now. 
But  Turner  differed  from  most  men  in  this, — that  he  was  al- 
ways willing  to  take  anything  to  do  that  came  in  his  way. 
He  did  not  shut  himself  up  in  a garret  to  produce  unsaleable 
works  of  “high  art,”  and  starve,  or  lose  his  senses.  He  hired 
himself  out  every  evening  to  wash  in  skies  in  Indian  ink,  on 
other  people’s  drawings,  as  many  as  he  could,  at  half-a-crown 
a-night,  getting  his  supper  into  the  bargain.  “ What  could  I 
have  done  better  ? ” he  said  afterwards  : “it  was  first-rate 
practice.”  Then  he  took  to  illustrating  guide-books  and  al- 
manacks, and  anything  that  wanted  cheap  frontispieces.  The 
Oxford  Almanack,  published  on  a single  sheet,  with  a copper- 
plate at  the  top  of  it,  consisting  of  a “ View  ” — you  perhaps, 
some  of  you,  know  the  kind  of  print  characteristic  of  the  last 
century,  under  which  the  word  “View”  is  always  printed  in 
large  letters,  with  a dedication,  obsequious  to  the  very  dust, 
to  the  Grand  Signior  of  the  neighbourhood. — Well,  this  Ah 


304 


LECTURES  ON  ARCHITECTURE 


manack  liad  always  such  a view  of  some  Oxford  College  at  the 
top  of  it,  dedicated,  I think,  always  to  the  head  of  the  Col- 
lege ; and  it  owed  this,  its  principal  decoration,  to  Turner  for 
many  years.  I have  myself  two  careful  drawings  of  some  old 
seals,  made  by  him  for  a local  book  on  the  antiquities  ot 
Whatley  Abbey.  And  there  was  hardly  a gentleman’s  seat  of 
any  importance  in  England,  towards  the  close  of  the  last  cen- 
tury, of  which  you  will  not  find  some  rude  engraving  in  the 
local  publications  of  the  time,  inscribed  with  the  simple  name 
“ W.  Turner.” 

There  was  another  great  difference  between  Turner  and 
other  men.  In  doing  these  drawings  for  the  commonest  pub- 
lications of  the  day,  and  for  a remuneration  altogether  con- 
temptible, he  never  did  his  work  badly  because  he  thought  it 
beneath  him,  or  because  he  was  ill-paid.  There  does  not 
exist  such  a thing  as  a slovenly  drawing  by  Turner.  With 
what  people  were  willing  to  give  him  for  his  work  he  was  con- 
tent ; but  he  considered  that  work  in  its  relation  to  himself, 
not  in  its  relation  to  the  purchaser.  He  took  a poor  price, 
that  he  might  live  ; but  he  made  noble  drawings,  that  he  might 
learn.  Of  course  some  are  slighter  than  others,  and  they  vary 
in  their  materials  ; those  executed  with  pencil  and  Indian  ink 
being  never  finished  to  the  degree  of  those  which  are  executed 
in  colour.  But  he  is  never  careless.  According  to  the  time 
and  means  at  his  disposal,  he  always  did  his  best.  He  never 
let  a drawing  leave  his  hands  without  having  made  a step  in 
advance,  and  having  done  better  in  it  than  he  had  ever  done 
before  ; and  there  is  no  important  drawing  of  the  period  which 
is  not  executed  with  a total  disregard  of  time  and  price,  and 
which  was  not,  even  then,  worth  four  or  five  times  what 
Turner  received  for  it. 

Even  without  genius,  a man  who  thus  felt  and  thus  la-  \ 
boured  was  sure  to  do  great  things  ; though  it  is  seldom  that, 
without  great  genius,  men  either  thus  feel  or  thus  labour. 
Turner  was  as  far  beyond  all  other  men  in  intellect  as  in  indus-  j 
try  ; and  his  advance  in  power  and  grasp  of  thought  was  as 
steady  as  the  increasing  light  of  sunrise. 

His  reputation  was  soon  so  far  established  that  he  was  able  j 


AND  PAINTING. 


305 


to  devote  himself  to  more  consistent  study.  He  never  ap 
pears  literally  to  have  copied  any  picture  ; but  whenever  any 
master  interested  him,  or  was  of  so  established  a reputation 
that  he  thought  it  necessary  to  study  him,  he  painted  pictures 
of  his  own  subjects  in  the  style  of  that  master,  until  he  felt 
himself  able  to  rival  his  exellencies,  whatever  they  were. 
There  are  thus  multitudes  of  pictures  by  Turner  which  are 
direct  imitations  of  other  masters  ; especially  of  Claude,  Wil- 
son, Loutherbourg,  Caspar  Poussin,  Yandevelde,  Cuyp,  and 
Rembrandt.  It  has  been  argued  by  Mr.  Leslie  that,  because 
Turner  thus  in  his  early  years  imitated  many  of  the  old  mas- 
ters, therefore  he  must  to  the  end  of  his  life  have  considered 
them  greater  than  himself.  The  nonsequitur  is  obvious.  I trust 
there  are  few  men  so  unhappy  as  never  to  have  learned  any- 
thing from  their  inferiors  ; and  I fear  there  are  few  men  so  wise 
as  never  to  have  imitated  anything  but  what  was  deserving  of 
imitation.  The  young  Turner,  indeed,  would  have  been  more 
than  mortal  if,  in  a period  utterly  devoid  of  all  healthy  exam- 
ples of  landscape  art,  he  had  been  able  at  once  to  see  his  way 
to  the  attainment  of  his  ultimate  ends  ; or  if,  seeing  it,  he  had 
felt  himself  at  once  strong  enough  to  defy  the  authority  of 
every  painter  and  connoisseur  whose  style  had  formed  the 
taste  of  the  public,  or  whose  dicta  directed  their  patronage. 

But  the  period  when  he  both  felt  and  resolved  to  assert  his 
own  superiority  was  indicated  with  perfect  clearness,  by  his 
publishing  a series  of  engravings,  which  were  nothing  else 
than  direct  challenges  to  Claude — then  the  landscape  painter 
supposed  to  be  the  greatest  in  the  world — upon  his  own 
ground  and  his  own  terms.  You  are  probably  all  aware  that 
the  studies  made  by  Claude  for  his  pictures,  and  kept  by  him 
under  the  name  of  the  “ Liber  Veritatis,”  were  for  the  most 
part  made  with  pen  and  ink,  washed  over  with  a brown  tint .; 
and  that  these  drawings  have  been  carefully  fac-similed  and 
published  in  the  form  of  mezzotint  engravings,  long  supposed 
to  be  models  of  taste  in  landscape  composition.  In  order  to 
provoke  comparison  between  Claude  and  himself,  Turner  pub- 
lished a series  of  engravings,  called  the  “Liber  Studiorum,” 
executed  in  exactly  the  same  manner  as  these  drawings  of 


306 


LECTURES  ON  ARCHITECTURE 


Claude, — an  etching  representing  what  was  done  with  the 
pen,  while  mezzotint  stood  for  colour.  You  see  the  notable 
publicity  of  this  challenge.  Had  he  confined  himself  to  pict- 
ures in  his  trial  of  skill  with  Claude,  it  would  only  have  been 
in  the  gallery  or  the  palace  that  the  comparison  could  have 
been  instituted  ; but  now  it  is  in  the  power  of  all  who  are  in« 
terested  in  the  matter  to  make  it  at  their  ease.* 

****-****** 

Now,  what  Turner  did  in  contest  with  Claude,  he  did  with 
every  other  then-known  master  of  landscape,  each  in  his  turn. 
He  challenged  and  vanquished,  each  in  his  own  peculiar  field, 
Yandevelde  on  the  sea,  Salvator  among  rocks,  and  Cuyp  on 
Lowland  rivers  ; and,  having  done  this,  set  himself  to  paint 
the  natural  scenery  of  skies,  mountains,  and  lakes,  which,  until 
his  time,  had  never  been  so  much  as  attempted. 

He  thus,  in  the  extent  of  his  sphere,  far  surpassed  even 
Titian  and  Leonardo,  the  great  men  of  the  earlier  schools. 
In  their  foreground  work  neither  Titian  nor  Leonardo  could 
be  excelled  ; but  Titian  and  Leonardo  were  thoroughly  con- 
ventional in  all  but  them  foregrounds.  Turner  was  equally 
great  in  all  the  elements  of  landscape,  and  it  is  on  him,  and 
on  his  daring  additions  to  the  received  schemes  of  landscape 
art,  that  all  modern  landscape  has  been  founded.  You  will 
never  meet  any  truly  great  living  landscape  painter  who  will  j 
not  at  once  frankly  confess  his  obligations  to  Turner,  not, 
observe,  as  having  copied  him,  but  as  having  been  led  by  ; 
Turner  to  look  in  nature  for  what  he  would  otherwise  either 
not  have  discerned,  or  discerning,  not  have  dared  to  represent.  ! 

Turner,  therefore,  was  the  first  man  who  presented  us  with 
the  type  of  perfect  landscape  art : and  the  richness  of  that  ! 

* When  this  Lecture  was  delivered,  an  enlarged  copy  of  a portion  of 
one  of  these  studies  by  Claude  was  set  beside  a similarly  magnified  por- 
tion of  one  by  Turner.  It  was  impossible,  without  much  increasing  the  I 
cost  of  the  publication,  to  prepare  two  mezzotint  engravings  with  the  | 
care  requisite  for  this  purpose  : and  the  portion  of  the  Lecture  relating  ; 
to  these  examples  is  therefore  omitted.  It  is  however  in  the  power  of 
every  reader  to  procure  one  or  more  plates  of  each  series ; and  to  judge  j 
for  himself  whether  the  conclusion  of  Turner’s  superiority,  which  is 
assumed  in  the  next  sentence  of  the  text,  be  a just  one  or  not- 


I 


AND  PAINTING . 


307 


art,  with  which  you  are  at  present  surrounded,  and  which 
enables  you  to  open  your  walls  as  it  were  into  so  many  win- 
dows, through  which  you  can  see  whatever  has  charmed  you 
in  the  fairest  scenery  of  your  country,  you  will  do  well  to 
remember  as  Turneresque. 

So  then  you  have  these  five  periods  to  recollect — you  will 
have  no  difficulty,  I trust,  in  doing  so, — the  periods  of  Giotto, 
Leonardo,  Titian,  pastoralism,  and  Turner. 

But  Turner’s  work  is  yet  only  begun.  His  greatness  is,  as 
yet,  altogether  denied  by  many  ; and  to  the  full,  felt  by  very 
few.  But  every  day  that  he  lies  in  his  grave  will  bring  some 
new  acknowledgement  of  his  power  ; and  through  those  eyes, 
now  filled  with  dust,  generations  yet  unborn  will  learn  to  be- 
hold the  light  of  nature. 

You  have  some  ground  to-night  to  accuse  me  of  dogmatism. 
I can  bring  no  proof  before  you  of  what  I so  boldly  assert. 
But  I would  not  have  accepted  your  invitation  to  address  you, 
unless  I had  felt  that  I had  a right  to  be,  in  this  matter,  dog- 
matic. I did  not  come  here  to  tell  you  of  my  beliefs  or  my 
conjectures  ; I came  to  tell  you  the  truth  which  I have  given 
fifteen  years  of  my  life  to  ascertain,  that  this  man,  this  Turner, 
of  whom  you  have  known  so  little  while  he  was  living  among 
you,  will  one  day  take  his  place  beside  Shakspeare  and  Veru- 
lam,  in  the  annals  of  the  light  of  England. 

Yes  : beside  Shakspeare  and  Verulam,  a third  star  in  that 
central  constellation,  round  which,  in  the  astronomy  of  in- 
tellect, all  other  stars  make  their  circuit.  By  Shakspeare, 
humanity  was  unsealed  to  you  ; by  Yerulam  the  principles  of 
nature ; and  by  Turner,  her  aspect.  All  these  were  sent  to 
unlock  one  of  the  gates  of  light,  and  to  unlock  it  for  the  first 
time.  But  of  all  the  three,  though  not  the  greatest,  Turner 
was  the  most  unprecedented  in  his  work.  Bacon  did  what 
Aristotle  had  attempted  ; Shakspeare  did  perfectly  what  iEs- 
chylus  did  partially  ; but  none  before  Turner  had  lifted  the 
veil  from  the  face  of  nature  ; the  majesty  of  the  hills  and 
forests  had  received  no  interpretation,  and  the  clouds  passed 
unrecorded  from  the  face  of  the  heaven  which  they  adorned, 
and  of  the  earth  to  which  they  ministered. 


308 


LECTURES  ON  ARCHITECTURE 


And  now  let  me  tell  you  something  of  his  personal  charao 
ter.  You  have  heard  him  spoken  of  as  ill-natured,  and  jeal- 
ous of  his  brother  artists.  I will  tell  you  how  jealous  he  was. 
I knew  him  for  ten  years,  and  during  that  time  had  much 
familiar  intercourse  with  him.  1 7iever  once  heard  him  say  an 
unkind  thing  of  a brother  artist,  I never  once  heard  him  find  a 
fault  with  another  man’s  wrork.  I could  say  this  of  no  other 
artist  whom  I have  ever  known. 

But  I will  add  a piece  of  evidence  on  this  matter  of  peculiar- 
force.  Probably  many  here  have  read  a book  which  has  been 
lately  published,  to  my  mind  one  of  extreme  interest  and  value, 
the  life  of  the  unhappy  artist,  Benjamin  Haydon.  Whatever 
may  have  been  his  faults,  I believe  no  person  can  read  his 
journal  without  coming  to  the  conclusion  that  his  heart  was 
honest,  and  that  he  does  not  wilfully  misrepresent  any  fact,  or 
any  person.  Even  supposing  otherwise,  the  expression  I am 
going  to  quote  to  you  would  have  all  the  more  force,  because, 
as  you  know,  Haydon  passed  his  whole  life  in  war  with  the 
Royal  Academy,  of  which  Turner  was  one  of  the  most  influen- 
tial members.  Yet  in  the  midst  of  one  of  his  most  violent  ex- 
pressions of  exultation  at  one  of  his  victories  over  the  Academy, 
he  draws  back  suddenly  with  these  words  : — “ But  Turner 
behaved  well,  and  did  me  justice.” 

I will  give  you  however  besides,  two  plain  facts  illustrative 
of  Turner’s  “jealousy.” 

You  have,  perhaps  not  many  of  you,  heard  of  a painter  of 
the  name  of  Bird  ; I do  not  myself  know  his  works,  but  Turner 
saw  some  merit  in  them  : and  when  Bird  first  sent  a picture 
to  the  Academy,  for  exhibition,  Turner  was  on  the  hanging 
committee.  Bird’s  picture  had  great  merit ; but  no  place  for 
it  could  be  found.  Turner  pleaded  hard  for  it.  No,  the 
thing  was  impossible.  Turner  sat  down  and  looked  at  Bird’s 
picture  a long  time  ; then  insisted  that  a place  must  be  found 
for  it.  He  was  still  met  by  the  assertion  of  impracticability. 
He  said  no  more,  but  took  down  one  of  his  own  pictures,  sent 
it  out  of  the  Academy,  and  hung  Bird’s  in  its  place. 

Match  that,  if  you  cau,  among  the  annals  of  hanging  corn* 
mittees.  But  he  could  do  nobler  things  than  this. 


AND  PAINTING. 


309 


When  Turner’s  picture  of  Cologne  was  exhibited  in  the  year 
1826,  it  was  hung  between  two  portraits,  by  Sir  Thomas 
Lawrence,  of  Lady  Wallscourt,  and  Lady  Robert  Manners. 

The  sky  of  Turner’s  • picture  was  exceedingly  bright,  and  it 
had  a most  injurious  effect  on  the  colour  of  the  two  portraits. 
Lawrence  naturally  felt  mortified,  and  complained  openly  of 
the  position  of  his  pictures.  You  are  aware  that  artists  were 
at  that  time  permitted  to  retouch  their  pictures  on  the  walls 
of  the  Academy.  On  the  morning  of  the  opening  of  the  ex- 
hibition, at  the  private  view,  a friend  of  Turner’s  who  had 
seen  the  Cologne  in  all  its  splendour,  led  a group  of  expec- 
tant critics  up  to  the  picture.  He  started  back  from  it  in 
consternation.  The  golden  sky  had  changed  to  a dun  colour. 
He  ran  up  to  Turner,  who  was  in  another  part  part  of  the 
room.  “ Turner,  what  have  you  been  doing  to  your  picture  V ” 
“Oh,”  muttered  Turner,  in  a low  voice,  “poor  Lawrence  was 
so  unhappy.  It’s  only  lamp  black.  It’ll  all  wash  off  after  the 
exhibition  ! ” He  had  actually  passed  a wash  of  lamp  black 
in  water  colour  over  the  whole  sky,  and  utterly  spoiled  his 
picture  for  the  time,  and  so  left  it  through  the  exhibition,  lest 
it  should  hurt  Lawrences. 

You  may  easily  find  instances  of  self-sacrifice  where  men 
have  strong  motives,  and  where  large  benefits  are  to  be  con- 
ferred by  the  effort,  or  general  admiration  obtained  by  it ; 
but  of  pure,  unselfish,  and  perfect  generosity,  showing  itself 
in  a matter  of  minor  interest,  and  when  few  could  be  aware 
of  the  sacrifice  made,  you  will  not  easily  find  such  another  ex- 
ample as  this. 

Thus  much  for  his  jealousy  of  his  brother-artists.  You 
have  also  heard  much  of  his  niggardliness  in  money  transac- 
tions. A great  part  of  what  you  have  heard  is  perfectly  true, 
allowing  for  the  exaggeration  which  always  takes  place  in  the 
accounts  of  an  eccentric  character.  But  there  are  other  parts 
of  Turner’s  conduct  of  which  you  have  never  heard  ; and 
which,  if  truly  reported,  would  set  his  niggardliness  in  a very 
different  light.  Every  person  from  whom  Turner  exacted  a 
due  shilling,  proclaimed  the  exaction  far  and  wide ; but  the 
persons  to  whom  Turner  gave  hundreds  of  pounds  were  pre- 


310 


LECTURES  ON  ARCHITECTURE 


vented,  by  their  “ delicacy,”  from  reporting  the  kindness  o! 
their  benefactor.  I may,  however,  perhaps,  be  permitted  to 
acquaint  you  with  one  circumstance  of  this  nature,  creditable 
alike  to  both  parties  concerned. 

At  the  death  of  a poor  drawing  master,  Mr.  Wells,  whom 
Turner  had  long  known,  he  was  deeply  affected,  and  lent 
money  to  the  widow  until  a large  sum  had  accumulated.  She 
was  both  honest  and  grateful,  and  after  a long  period  was 
happy  enough  to  be  able  to  return  to  her  benefactor  the  whole 
sum  she  had  received  from  him.  She  waited  on  him  with  it ; 
but  Turner  kept  his  hands  in  his  pocket.  “ Keep  it,”  he  said 
“and  send  your  children  to  school,  and  to  church.”  He  said 
this  in  bitterness  ; he  had  himself  been  sent  to  neither. 

Well,  but  you  will  answer  to  me,  we  have  heard  Turner  all 
our  lives  stigmatised  as  brutal,  and  uncharitable,  and  selfish, 
and  miserly.  How  are  we  to  understand  these  opposing  state- 
ments ? 

Easily.  I have  told  you  truly  what  Turner  -was.  You  have 
often  heard  what  to  most  people  he  appeared  to  be.  Imagine 
what  it  was  for  a man  to  live  seventy  years  in  this  hard  world, 
with  the  kindest  heart  and  the  noblest  intellect  of  his  time, 
and  never  to  meet  with  a single  word  or  ray  of  sympathy,  until 
he  felt  himself  sinking  into  the  grave.  From  the  time  he  knew 
his  true  greatness  all  the  world  was  turned  against  him  : he 
held  his  own  ; but  it  could  not  be  without  roughness  of  bear- 
ing, and  hardening  of  the  temper,  if  not  of  the  heart.  No  one 
understood  him,  no  one  trusted  him,  and  every  one  cried  out 
against  him.  Imagine,  any  of  you,  the  effect  upon  your  own 
minds,  if  every  voice  that  you  heard  from  the  human  beings 
around  you  were  raised,  year  after  year,  through  all  your  lives, 
only  in  condemnation  of  your  efforts,  and  denial  of  your  suc- 
cess. This  may  be  borne,  and  borne  easily,  by  men  who 
have  fixed  religious  principles,  or  supporting  domestic  ties. 
But  Turner  had  no  one  to  teach  him  in  his  youth,  and  no  one 
to  love  him  in  his  old  age.  Respect  and  affection,  if  they 
came  at  all,  came  unbelieved,  or  came  too  late.  Naturally 
irritable,  though  kind, — naturally  suspicious,  though  gener- 
ous,— the  gold  gradually  became  dim,  and  the  most  fine  gold 


AND  PAINTING. 


311 


changed,  or,  if  not  changed,  overcast  and  clouded.  The  deep 
heart  was  still  beating,  but  it  was  beneath  a dark  and  melan- 
choly mail  between  whose  joints,  however,  sometimes  the 
slightest  arrows  found  entrance,  and  power  of  giving  pain. 
He  received  no  consolation  in  his  last  years,  nor  in  his  death. 
Cut  off  in  great  part  from  all  society, — first,  by  labour,  and  at 
last  by  sickness, — hunted  to  his  grave  by  the  malignities  of 
small  critics,  and  the  jealousies  of  hopeless  rivalry,  he  died  in 
the  house  of  a stranger, — one  companion  of  his  life,  and  one 
only,  staying  with  him  to  the  last.  The  window  of  his  death- 
chamber  was  turned  towards  the  west,  and  the  sun  shone  up- 
on his  face  in  its  setting  and  rested  there,  as  he  expired. 


LECTURE  IV. 

PEE-SAPH AELITISM. 

The  subject  on  which  I would  desire  to  engage  your  ac- 
tion this  evening,  is  the  nature  and  probable  result  of  a cer- 
tain schism  which  took  place  a few  years  ago  among  our 
British  artists. 

This  schism,  or  rather  the  heresy  which  led  to  it,  as  you 
are  probably  aware,  was  introduced  by  a small  number  of 
very  young  men ; and  consists  mainly  in  the  assertion  that 
the  principles  on  which  art  has  been  taught  for  these  three 
hundred  years  back  are  essentially  wrong,  and  that  the  prin- 
ciples which  ought  to  guide  us  are  those  which  prevailed 
before  the  time  of  Raphael ; in  adopting  which,  therefore,  as 
their  guides,  these  young  men,  as  a sort  of  bond  of  unity 
among  themselves,  took  the  unfortunate  and  somewhat  ludi- 
crous name  of  “ Pre-Raphaelite  ” brethren. 

You  must  all  be  aware  that  this  heresy  has  been  opposed 
With  all  the  influence  and  all  the  bitterness  of  art  and 
criticism  ; but  that  in  spite  of  these  the  heresy  has  gained 
ground,  and  the  pictures  painted  on  these  new  principles  have 
obtained  a most  extensive  popularity.  These  circumstances 


312 


LECTURES  ON  ARCHITECTURE 


are  sufficiently  singular,  but  tlieir  importance  is  greater  even 
than  their  singularity  ; and  your  time  will  certainly  not  be 
wasted  in  devoting  an  hour  to  an  inquiry  into  the  true  nature 
of  this  movement. 

I shall,  first,  therefore,  endeavour  to  state  to  you  what  the 
real  difference  is  between  the  principles  of  art  before  and 
after  Raphael’s  time,  and  then  to  ascertain,  with  you,  how 
far  these  }7oung  men  truly  have  understood  the  difference, 
and  what  may  be  hoped  or  feared  from  the  effort  they  are 
making. 

First,  then,  What  is  the  real  difference  between  the  prin- 
ciples on  which  art  has  been  pursued  before  and  since 
Raphael  ? You  must  be  aware,  that  the  principal  ground  on 
which  the  Pre-Raphaelites  have  been  attacked,  is  the  charge 
that  they  wish  to  bring  us  back  to  a time  of  darkness  and 
ignorance,  when  the  principles  of  drawing,  and  of  art  in 
general,  were  comparatively  unknown  ; and  this  attack,  there- 
fore, is  entirely  founded  on  the  assumption  that,  although  for 
some  unaccountable  reason  we  cannot  at  present  produce 
artists  altogether  equal  to  Raphael,  yet  that  we  are  on  the 
whole  in  a state  of  greater  illumination  than,  at  all  events, 
any  artists  who  preceded  Raphael ; so  that  we  consider  our- 
selves entitled  to  look  down  upon  them,  and  to  say  that,  all 
things  considered,  they  did  some  wonderful  things  for  their 
time  ; but  that,  as  for  comparing  the  art  of  Giotto  to  that  of 
Wilkie  or  Edwin  Landseer,  it  would  be  perfectly  ridiculous, 
— the  one  being  a mere  infant  in  his  profession,  and  the 
others  accomplished  workmen. 

Now,  that  this  progress  has  in  some  things  taken  place  is 
perfectly  true  ; but  it  is  true  also  that  this  progress  is  by  no 
means  the  main  thing  to  be  noticed  respecting  ancient  and 
modern  aid ; that  there  are  other  circumstances,  connected 
with  the  change  from  one  to  the  other,  immeasurably  more 
important,  and  which,  until  very  lately,  have  been  altogether 
lost  sight  of. 

The  fact  is,  that  modern  art  is  not  so  much  distinguished 
from  old  art  by  greater  skill,  as  by  a radical  change  in 
temper.  The  art  of  this  day  is  not  merely  a more  knowing 


AND  PAINTING. 


313 


art  than  that  of  the  thirteenth  century, — it  is  altogether 
another  art.  Between  the  two  there  is  a great  gulph,  a dis- 
tinction for  ever  ineffaceable.  The  change  from  one  to  the 
other  was  not  that  of  the  child  into  the  man,  as  we  usually 
consider  it ; it  was  that  of  the  chrysalis  into  the  butterfly. 
There  was  an  entire  change  in  the  habits,  food,  method  of 
existence,  and  heart  of  the  whole  creature.  That  we  know 
more  than  thirteenth-century  people  is  perfectly  true  ; but 
that  is  not  the  essential  difference  between  us  and  them.  We 
are  different  kind  of  creatures  from  them, — as  different  as 
moths  are  different  from  caterpillars  ; and  different  in  a 
certain  broad  and  vast  sense,  wdiich  I shall  try  this  evening 
to  explain  and  prove  to  you  ; — different  not  merely  in  this  or 
that  result  of  minor  circumstances, — not  as  you  are  different 
from  people  who  never  saw  a locomotive  engine,  or  a High- 
lander of  this  century  from  a Highlander  of  1745  ; — different 
in  a far  broader  and  mightier  sense  than  that,  in  a sense  so  great 
and  clear,  that  we  are  enabled  to  separate  all  the  Christian  na  - 
tions and  tongues  of  the  early  time  from  those  of  the  latter 
time,  and  speak  of  them  in  one  group  as  the  kingdoms  of  the 
Middle  Ages.  There  is  an  infinite  significance  in  that  term, 
which  I want  you  to  dwell  upon  and  work  out ; it  is  a term 
which  we  use  in  a dim  consciousness  of  the  truth,  but  without 
fully  penetrating  into  that  of  which  we  are  conscious.  I want 
to  deepen  and  make  clear  to  you  this  consciousness  that  the 
world  has  had  essentially  a Trinity  of  ages — the  Classical 
Age,  the  Middle  Age,  the  Modern  Age  ; each  of  these  embra- 
cing races  and  individuals  of  apparently  enormous  separation 
in  kind,  but  united  in  the  spirit  of  their  age, — the  Classical 
Age  having  its  Egyptians  and  Ninevites,  Greeks  and  Romans, 
—the  Middle  Age  having  its  Goths  and  Franks,  Lombards  and 
Italians, — the  Modern  Ages  having  their  French  and  English, 
Spaniards  and  Germans ; but  all  these  distinctions  being  in 
each  case  subordinate  to  the  mightier  and  broader  distinction, 
between  Classicalism,  Medicemlism , and  Modernism. 

Now  our  object  to-night  is  indeed  only  to  inquire  into  a 
matter  of  art ; but  we  cannot  do  so  properly  until  we  consider 
this  art  in  its  relation  to  the  inner  spirit  of  the  age  in  which 


314  LECTURES  ON  ARCHITECTURE 

it  exists  ; and  by  doing  so  we  shall  not  only  arrive  at  the  most 
just  conclusions  respecting  our  present  subject,  but  we  shah 
obtain  the  means  of  arriving  at  just  conclusions  respecting  | 
many  other  things. 

Now  the  division  of  time  which  the  Pre-Raphaelites  have 
adopted,  in  choosing  Raphael  as  a man  whose  works  mark 
the  separation  between  Mediaevalism  and  Modernism,  is  per- 
fectly accurate.  It  has  been  accepted  as  such  by  all  their 
opponents. 

You  have,  then,  the  three  periods  : Classicalism,  extending 
to  the  fall  of  the  Roman  empire  ; Mediaevalism,  extending 
from  that  fall  to  the  close  of  the  fifteenth  century  ; and  Mod-  i 
ernism,  thenceforward  to  our  days. 

And  in  examining  into  the  spirit  of  these  three  epochs, 
observe,  I don’t  mean  to  compare  their  bad  men,— I don’t  j 
mean  to  take  Tiberius  as  a type  of  Classicalism,  nor  Ezzelin 
as  a type  of  Medievalism,  nor  Robespierre  as  a type  of  Mod- 
ernism. Bad  men  are  like  each  other  in  all  epochs  ; and 
in  the  Roman,  the  Paduan,  or  the  Parisian,  sensuality  and 
cruelty  admit  of  little  distinction  in  the  manners  of  their 
manifestation.  But  among  men  comparatively  virtuous,  it  is 
important  to  study  the  phases  of  character ; and  it  is  into 
these  only  that  it  is  necessary  for  us  to  inquire.  Consider 
therefore,  first,  the  essential  difference  in  character  between 
three  of  the  most  devoted  military  "heroes  whom  the  three 
great  epochs  of  the  world  have  produced,— all  three  devoted 
to  the  service  of  their  country,— all  of  them  dying  therein. 
I mean,  Leonidas  in  the  Classical  period,  St.  Louis  in  the 
Mediaeval  period,  and  Lord  Nelson  in  the  Modern  period. 

Leonidas  had  the  most  rigid  sense  of  duty,  and  died  with 
the  most  perfect  faith  in  the  gods  of  his  country,  fulfilling 
the  accepted  prophecy  of  his  death.  St.  Louis  had  the  most 
rigid  sense  of  duty,  and  the  most  perfect  faith  in  Christ 

Nelson  had  the  most  rigid  sense  of  duty,  and 

You  must  supply  my  pause  with  your  charity. 

Now  you  do  not  suppose  that  the  main  difference  between 
Leonidas  and  Nelson  lay  in  the  modern  inventions  at  the 
command  of  the  one,  as  compared  with  the  imperfect  military 


AND  PAINTING. 


315 


instruments  possessed  by  the  other.  They  were  not  essen- 
tially different,  in  that  the  one  fought  with  lances  and  the 
other  with  guns.  But  they  were  essentially  different  in  the 
whole  tone  of  their  religious  belief. 

By  this  instance  you  may  be  partially  prepared  for  the  bold 
statement  I am  going  to  make  to  you,  as  to  the  change  which 
constitutes  modernism.  I said  just  now  that  it  was  like  that 
of  the  worm  to  the  butterfly.  But  the  changes  which  God 
causes  in  his  lower  creatures  are  almost  always  from  worse 
to  better,  while  the  changes  which  God  allows  man  to  make 
in  himself  are  very  often  quite  the  other  way  ; like  Adam’s 
new  arrangement  of  his  nature.  And  in  saying  that  this  last 
change  was  like  that  of  a chrysalis,  I meant  only  in  the  com- 
pleteness of  it,  not  in  the  tendency  of  it.  Instead  of  from 
the  worm  to  the  butterfly,  it  is  very  possible  it  may  have  been 
from  the  butterfly  to  the  worm. 

Have  patience  with  me  for  a moment  after  I tell  you  what 
I believe  it  to  have  been,  and  give  me  a little  time  to  justify 
my  words. 

I say  that  Classicalism  began,  wherever  civilisation  began, 
with  Pagan  Faith.  Medievalism  began,  and  continued,  wher- 
ever civilisation  began  and  continued  to  confess  Christ.  And, 
lastly,  Modernism  began  and  continues,  wherever  civilisation 
began  and  continues  to  deny  Christ. 

You  are  startled,  but  give  me  a moment  to  explain.  What, 
you  would  say  to  me,  do  you  mean  to  tell  us  that  we  deny 
Christ  ? we  who  are  essentially  modern  in  every  one  of  our 
principles  and  feelings,  and  yet  all  of  us  professing  believers 
in  Christ,  and  we  trust  most  of  us  true  ones?  I answer,  So 
far  as  we  are  believers  indeed,  we  are  one  with  the  faithful  of 
all  times, — one  with  the  classical  believer  of  Athens  and 
Ephesus,  and  one  with  the  mediaeval  believer  of  the  banks  of 
the  Rhone  and  the  valleys  of  the  Monte  Yiso.  But  so  far  as, 
in  various  strange  ways,  some  in  great  and  some  in  small 
things,  we  deny  this  belief,  in  so  far  we  are  essentially  infected 
with  this  spirit,  which  I call  modernism. 

For  observe,  the  change  of  which  I speak  has  nothing  what- 
ever to  do  with  the  Reformation,  or  with  any  of  its  effects. 


316 


LECTURES  ON  ARCHITECTURE 


It  is  a far  broader  thing  than  the  Reformation.  It  is  a change 
which  has  taken  place,  not  only  in  reformed  England,  and 
reformed  Scotland  ; but  in  unreformed  France,  in  unreformed 
Italy,  in  unreformed  Austria.  I class  honest  Protestants  and 
honest  Roman  Catholics  for  the  present  together,  under  the 
general  term  Christians ; if  you  object  to  their  being  so 
classed  together,  I pray  your  pardon,  but  allow  me  to  do  so 
at  present,  for  the  sake  of  perspicuity,  if  for  nothing  else ; 
and  so  classing  them,  I say  that  a change  took  place,  about 
the  time  of  Raphael,  in  the  spirit  of  Roman  Catholics  and 
Protestants  both ; and  that  change  consisted  in  the  denial  of 
their  religious  belief,  at  least  in  the  external  and  trivial  affairs 
of  life,  and  often  in  far  more  serious  things. 

For  instance,  hear  this  direction  to  an  upholsterer  of  the 
early  thirteenth  century.  Under  the  commands  of  the  sheriff 
of  Wiltshire,  he  is  thus  ordered  to  make  some  alterations  in 
a room  for  Henry  the  Third.  He  is  to  “ wainscot  the  King’s 
lower  chamber,  and  to  paint  that  wrainscot  of  a green  colour, 
and  to  put  a border  to  it,  and  to  cause  the  heads  of  kings  and 
queens  to  be  painted  on  the  borders  ; and  to  paint  on  the 
walls  of  the  King’s  upper  chamber  the  story  of  St.  Margaret, 
Virgin,  and  the  four  Evangelists,  and  to  paint  the  wainscot 
of  the  same  chamber  of  a green  colour,  spotted  with  gold.”  * 

Again,  the  sheriff  of  Wiltshire  is  ordered  to  “ put  two 
small  glass  windows  in  the  chamber  of  Edward  the  King’s 
son  ; and  put  a glass  window  in  the  chamber  of  our  Queen  at 
Clarendon  ; and  in  the  same  window  cause  to  be  painted  a 
Mary  with  her  Child,  and  at  the  feet  of  the  said  Mary,  a 
queen  with  clasped  hands.” 

Again,  the  sheriff  of  Southampton  is  ordered  to  “paint  the 
tablet  beside  the  King’s  bed,  with  the  figures  of  the  guards 
of  the  bed  of  Solomon,  and  to  glaze  with  white  glass  the  win- 
dows in  the  King’s  great  Hall  at  Southampton,  and  cause  the 
history  of  Lazarus  and  Dives  to  be  painted  in  the  same.” 

And  so  on;  I need  not  multiply  instances.  You  see  that 
in  all  these  cases,  the  furniture  of  the  King’s  house  is  made 

* Liberate  Rolls,  preserved  in  the  Tower  of  London,  and  quoted  by 
Mr.  Turner  in  his  History  of  the  Domestic  Architecture  of  England. 


AND  rAINTING. 


317 


to  confess  his  Christianity.  It  may  be  imperfect  and  impure 
Christianity,  but  such  as  it  might  be,  it  was  all  that  men  had 
then  to  live  and  die  by  ; and  you  see  there  was  not  a pane 
of  glass  in  their  windows,  nor  a pallet  by  their  bedside  that 
did  not  confess  and  proclaim  it.  Now,  when  you  go  home  tc 
your  own  rooms,  supposing  them  to  be  richly  decorated  at 
all,  examine  what  that  decoration  consists  of.  You  will 
find  Cupids,  Graces,  Floras,  Dianas,  Jupiters,  Junos.  But  you 
will  not  find,  except  in  the  form  of  an  engraving,  bought  prin- 
cipally for  its  artistic  beauty,  either  Christ,  or  the  Virgin,  or 
Lazarus  and  Dives.  And  if  a thousand  years  hence,  any  curi- 
ous investigator  were  to  dig  up  the  ruins  of  Edinburgh,  and 
not  know  your  history,  he  would  think  you  had  all  been  born 
heathens.  Now  that,  so  far  as  it  goes,  is  denying  Christ ; it 
is  pure  Modernism. 

No,  you  will  answer  me,  “you  misunderstand  and  calum- 
niate us.  We  do  not,  indeed,  choose  to  have  Dives  and  Laz- 
arus on  our  windows  ; but  that  is  not  because  we  are  moderns, 
but  because  we  are  Protestants,  and  do  not  like  religious  im- 
agery.” Pardon  me  : that  is  not  the  reason.  Go  into  any 
fashionable  lady’s  boudoir  in  Paris,  and  see  if  you  will  find 
Dives  and  Lazarus  there.  You  will  find,  indeed,  either  that 
she  has  her  private  chapel,  or  that  she  has  a crucifix  in  her 
dressing  room ; but  for  the  general  decoration  of  the 
house,  it  is  all  composed  of  Apollos  and  Muses,  just  as  it  is 
here. 

Again.  What  do  you  suppose  was  the  substance  of  good 
education,  the  education  of  a knight,  in  the  Middle  Ages? 
What  was  taught  to  a boy  as  soon  as  he  was  able  to  learn  any- 
thing ? First,  to  keep  under  his  body,  and  bring  it  into  sub 
jection  and  perfect  strength  ; then  to  take  Christ  for  his  cap- 
tain, to  live  as  always  in  his  presence  and,  finally,  to  do  liis 
devoir — mark  the  word — to  all  men  ? Now,  consider  first,  the 
difference  in  their  influence  over  the  armies  of  France,  be- 
tween the  ancient  word  “devoir,”  and  modern  word  “gloire.” 
And,  again,  ask  yourselves  what  you  expect  your  own  chil- 
dren to  be  taught  at  your  great  schools  and  universities.  Is 
it  Christian  history,  or  the  histories  of  Pan  and  Silenus? 


318  LECTURES  ON  ARCHITECTURE 

Your  present  education,  to  all  intents  and  purposes,  denies 
Christ,  and  that  is  intensely  and  peculiarly  modernism. 

Or,  again,  what  do  you  suppose  was  the  proclaimed  and'* 
understood  principle  of  all  Christian  governments  in  the  > 
middle  ages  ? I do  not  say  it  was  a principle  acted  up  to,  or 
that  the  cunning  and  violence  of  wicked  men  had  not  too.l 
often  their  full  sway  then,  as  now;  but  on  what  principles  } 
were  that  cunning  and  violence,  so  far  as  was  possible,  re- 
strained ? By  the  confessed  fear  of  God,  and  confessed  author-:  i 
ity  of  his  law.  You  will  find  that  all  treaties,  laws,  transac-l 
tions  whatsoever,  in  the  middle  ages,  are  based  on  a confession  * 
of  Christianity  as  the  leading  rule  of  life  ; that  a text  of  Script-  i 
ure  is  held,  in  all  public  assemblies,  strong  enough  to  be  set,  fr 
against  an  appearance  of  expediency ; and  although,  in  the! I 
end,  the  expediency  might  triumph,  yet  it  was  never  without  i 
a distinct  allowance  of  Christian  principle,  as  an  efficient  ele-ll 
ment  in  the  consultation.  Whatever  error  might  be  commit- 1 
ted,  at  least  Christ  was  openly  confessed.  Now  what  is  the  I 
custom  of  your  British  Parliament  in  these  days?  You  know 
that  nothing  would  excite  greater  manifestations  of  contempt  j 
and  disgust  than  the  slightest  attempt  to  introduce  the  au- 
thority of  Scripture  in  a political  consultation.  That  is  deny-ji 
ing  Christ.  It  is  intensely  and  peculiarly  modernism. 

It  would  be  easy  to  go  on  showing  you  this  same  thing  in  i 
many  more  instances ; but  my  business  to-night  is  to  show  i 
you  its  full  effect  in  one  thing  only,  namely,  in  art,  and  I 
must  come  straightway  to  that,  as  I have  little  enough  time.  I 
This,  then,  is  the  great  and  broad  fact  which  distinguishes:  j 
modern  art  from  old  art;  that  all  ancient  art  was  religious  A 
and  all  modern  art  is  profane.  Once  more,  your  patience  for 
an  instant.  I say,  all  ancient  art  was  religious ; that  is  to  say,  I 
religion  was  its  first  object ; private  luxury  or  pleasure  its 
second.  I say,  all  modern  art  is  profane  ; that  is,  private  lux- 
ury or  pleasure  is  its  first  object ; religion  its  second.  Now 
you  all  know,  that  anything  which  makes  religion  its  second 
object,  makes  religion  no  object.  God  will  put  up  with  a 
great  many  things  in  the  human  heart,  but  there  is  one  thing 
he  will  not  put  up  with  in  it — a second  place.  He  who  offers 


AND  PAINTING. 


319 


God  a second  place,  offers  him  no  place.  And  there  is  an- 
other mighty  truth  which  you  all  know,  that  he  who  makes 
religion  his  first  object,  makes  it  his  whole  object : he  has  no 
other  work  in  the  world  than  God’s  work.  Therefore  I do 
not  say  that  ancient  art  was  more  religious  than  modern  art. 
There  is  no  question  of  degree  in  this  matter.  Ancient  art 
was  religious  art ; modern  art  is  profane  art ; and  between 
the  two  the  distinction  is  as  firm  as  between  light  and  dark- 
ness. 

Now,  do  not  let  wrhat  I say  be  encumbered  in  your  minds 
with  the  objection,  that  you  think  art  ought  not  to  be  brought 
into  the  service  of  religion.  That  is  not  the  question  at 
present — do  not  agitate  it.  The  simple  fact  is,  that  old  art 
was  brought  into  that  service,  and  received  therein  a peculiar 
form  ; that  modern  art  is  not  brought  into  that  service,  and 
has  received  in  consequence  another  form ; that  this  is  the 
great  distinction  between  mediaeval  and  modern  art ; and  from 
that  are  clearly  deducible  all  other  essential  differences  be- 
tween them.  That  is  the  point  I wish  to  show  you,  and  of 
that  there  can  be  no  dispute.  Whether  or  not  Christianity 
be  the  purer  for  lacking  the  service  of  art,  is  disputable — and 
I do  not  mean  now  to  begin  the  dispute  ; but  that  art  is  the 
vnpurer  for  not  being  in  the  service  of  Christianity,  is  indisput- 
able, and  that  is  the  main  point  I have  now  to  do  with. 

Perhaps  there  are  some  of  you  here  who  would  not  allow 
that  the  religion  of  the  thirteenth  century  was  Christianity.  Be 
it  so,  still  is  the  statement  true,  which  is  all  that  is  necessary 
for  me  now  to  prove,  that  art  was  great  because  it  was  de- 
voted to  such  religion  as  then  existed.  Grant  that  Boman 
Catholicism  was  not  Christianity — -grant  it,  if  you  will,  to  be 
the  same  thing  as  old  heathenism, — and  still  I say  to  you, 
whatever  it  was,  men  lived  and  died  by  it,  the  ruling  thought 
of  all  their  thoughts  ; and  just  as  classical  art  was  greatest  in 
building  to  its  gods,  so  mediaeval  art  was  great  in  building  to 
its  gods,  and  modern  art  is  not  great,  because  it  builds  to  no 
God.  You  have  for  instance,  in  your  Edinburgh  Library, 
a Bible  of  the  thirteenth  century,  the  Latin  Bible,  commonlv 
known  as  the  Vulgate.  It  contains  the  Old  and  New  Testaments* 


320 


LECTURES  ON  ARCHITECTURE 


complete,  besides  the  boohs  of  Maccabees,  the  Wisdom  of 
Solomon,  the  books  of  Judith,  Baruch,  and  Tobit.  The  whole 
is  written  in  the  most  beautiful  black-letter  hand,  and  each 
book  begins  with  an  illuminated  letter,  containing  three  or 
four  figures,  illustrative  of  the  book  which  it  begins.  Now, 
whether  this  were  done  in  the  service  of  true  Christianity  or 
not,  the  simple  fact  is,  that  here  is  a man’s  lifetime  taken  up  iu 
writing  and  ornamenting  a Bible,  as  the  sole  end  of  his  art ; and 
that  doing  this  either  in  a book,  or  on  a wall,  was  the  common 
artist’s  life  at  the  time  ; that  the  constant  Bible  reading  and 
Bible  thinking  which  this  work  involved,  made  a man  serious 
and  thoughtful,  and  a good  workman,  because  he  was  always 
expressing  those  feelings  which,  whether  right  or  wrong,  were 
the  groundwork  of  his  whole  being.  Now,  about  the  year 
1500,  this  entire  system  was  changed.  Instead  of  the  life  of 
Christ,  men  had,  for  the  most  part,  to  paint  the  lives  of  Bac- 
chus and  Venus  ; and  if  you  walk  through  any  public  gallery 
of  pictures  by  the  “ great  masters,”  as  they  are  called,  you 
will  indeed  find  here  and  there  what  is  called  a Holy  Family, 
painted  for  the  sake  of  drawing  pretty  children,  or  a pretty 
woman  ; but  for  the  most  part  you  will  find  nothing  but 
Floras,  Fomonas,  Satyrs,  Graces,  Bacchanals,  and  Banditti. 
Now  you  will  not  declare — you  cannot  believe, — that  Angelico 
painting  the  life  of  Christ,  Benozzo  painting  the  life  of  Abra- 
ham, Ghirlandajo  painting  the  life  of  the  Virgin,  Giotto  paint- 
ing the  life  of  St.  Francis,  were  worse  employed,  or  likely  to 
produce  a less  healthy  art,  than  Titian  painting  the  loves  of 
Venus  and  Adonis,  than  Correggio  painting  the  naked  Antiope, 
than  Salvator  painting  the  slaughters  of  the  thirty  years’  war  ? 
If  you  will  not  let  me  call  the  one  kind  of  labour  Christian,  and 
the  other  unchristian,  at  least  you  will  let  me  call  the  one  moral, 
and  the  other  immoral,  and  that  is  all  I ask  you  to  admit. 

Now  observe,  hitherto  I have  been  telling  you  what  you 
may  feel  inclined  to  doubt  or  dispute  ; and  I must  leave  you 
to  consider  the  subject  at  your  leisure.  But  henceforward  I 
tell  you  plain  facts,  which  admit  neither  of  doubt  nor  dispute 
by  any  one  who  will  take  the  pains  to  acquaint  himself  with 
their  subject-matter. 


AND  PAINTING. 


321 

"When  the  entire  purpose  of  art  was  moral  teaching,  it  nat- 
urally took  truth  for  its  first  object,  and  beauty,  and  the 
pleasure  resulting  from  beauty,  only  for  its  second.  But 
when  it  lost  all  purpose  of  moral  teaching,  it  as  naturally 
took  beauty  for  its  first  object,  and  truth  for  its  second. 

That  is  to  say,  in  all  they  did,  the  old  artists  endeavoured 
in  one  way  or  another,  to  express  the  real  facts  of  the  subject 
or  event,  this  being  their  chief  business  : and  the  question 
they  first  asked  themselves  was  always,  how  would  this  thing, 
or  that,  actually  have  occurred  ? what  would  this  person,  or 
that,  have  done  under  the  circumstances  ? and  then,  having 
formed  their  conception,  they  work  it  out  with  only  a second- 
ary regard  to  grace,  or  beauty,  while  a modern  painter  inva- 
riably thinks  of  the  grace  and  beauty  of  his  work  first,  and 
unites  afterwards  as  much  truth  as  he  can  with  its  conven- 
tional graces.  I will  give  you  a single  strong  instance  to 
make  my  meaning  plainer.  In  Orcagna’s  great  fresco  of  the 
Triumph  of  Death,  one  of  the  incidents  is  that  three  kings,* 
when  out  hunting,  are  met  by  a spirit,  which,  desiring  them 
to  follow  it,  leads  them  to  a churchyard,  and  points  out  to 
them,  in  open  coffins,  three  bodies  of  kings  such  as  them- 
selves, in  the  last  stages  of  corruption.  Now  a modern  artist, 
representing  this,  would  have  endeavoured  dimly  and  faintly 

* This  incident  is  not  of  Orcagna’s  invention  ; it  is  variously  repre- 
sented in  much  earlier  art.  There  is  a curious  and  graphic  drawing  or 
it,  circa  1300,  in  the  MS.  Arundel  83.  Brit.  Mus.,  in  which  the  three 
dead  persons  are  walking,  and  are  met  by  three  queens,  who  severally 
utter  the  sentences, 

“ loll  am  aferd.” 

“ Lo,  whet  ich  se  ? ” 

“ Me  thinketli  hit  beth  develes  Hire.” 

To  which  the  dead  bodies  answer, — 

“ Ich  wes  wel  fair.” 

“ Such  sclielt  ou  be.” 

“ For  Godes  love,  be  wer  by  me.” 

It  is  curious,  that  though  the  dresses  of  the  living  persons,  and  the 

I was  well  fair”  of  the  first  dead  speaker,  seem  to  mark  them  dis- 
tinctly to  be  women,  some  longer  legends  below  are  headed  “ primus 
rex  mortuus,”  &c. 


322 


LECTURES  ON  ARCHITECTURE 


to  suggest  the  appearance  of  the  dead  bodies,  and  would  have  n 
made,  or  attempted  to  make,  the  countenances  of  the  three  !i 
kings  variously  and  solemnly  expressive  of  thought.  This  jj 
would  be  in  his,  or  our,  view,  a poetical  and  tasteful  treat-  I 
ment  of  the  subject.  But  Orcagna  disdains  both  poetry  and  i 
taste  ; he  wants  the  facts  only  ; he  wishes  to  give  the  specta  ■ ■] 
tor  the  same  lesson  that  the  kings  had  ; and  therefore,  in- 
stead of  concealing  the  dead  bodies,  he  paints  them  with  the 
most  fearful  detail.  And  then,  he  does  not  consider  wbat 
the  three  kings  might  most  gracefully  do.  He  considers  only 
what  they  actually  in  all  probability  would  have  done.  He  ? 
makes  them  looking  at  the  coffins  with  a startled  stare,  and 
one  holding  his  nose.  This  is  an  extreme  instance  ; but  you 
are  not  to  suppose  it  is  because  Orcagna  had  naturally  a s 
coarse  or  prosaic  mind.  Where  he  felt  that  thoughtfulness  f 
and  beauty  could  properly  be  introduced,  as  in  his  circles  of 
saints  and  prophets,  no  painter  of  the  middle  ages  is  so  grand. 

X can  give  you  no  better  proof  of  this,  than  the  one  fact  that 
Michael  Angelo  borrowed  from  him  openly, — borrowed  from  i 
him  in  the  principal  work  which  he  ever  executed,  the  Last 
Judgment,  and  borrowed  from  him  the  principal  figure  in 
that  work.  But  it  is  just  because  Orcagna  was  so  firmly  and  ! 
unscrupulously  true,  that  he  had  the  power  of  being  so  great  i 
when  he  chose.  His  arrow  went  straight  to  the  mark.  It 
was  not  that  he  did  not  love  beauty,  but  he  loved  truth  first. 

So  it  was  with  all  the  men  of  that  time.  No  painters  ever  i 
had  more  power  of  conceiving  graceful  form,  or  more  pro- 
found  devotion  to  the  beautiful ; but  all  these  gifts  and  affec- 
tions are  kept  sternly  subordinate  to  their  moral  purpose ; 
and,  so  far  as  their  powers  and  knowledge  went,  they  either 
painted  from  nature  things  as  they  were,  or  from  imagination 
things  as  they  must  have  been. 

I do  not  mean  that  they  reached  any  imitative  resemblance 
to  nature.  They  had  neither  skill  to  do  it,  nor  care  to  do  it. 
Their  art  was  conventional  and  imperfect,  but  they  considered 
it  only  as  a language  wherein  to  convey  the  knowledge  of  cer- 
tain facts  ; it  was  perfect  enough  for  that ; and  though  always 
reaching  on  to  greater  attainments,  they  never  suffered  their 


AND  PAINTING. 


323 


imperfections  to  disturb  and  check  them  in  their  immediate 
purposes.  And  this  mode  of  treating  all  subjects  was  per- 
sisted in  by  the  greatest  men  until  the  close  of  the  fifteenth 
century. 

Now  so  justly  have  the  Pre-Raphaelites  chosen  their  time 
and  name,  that  the  great  change  which  clouds  the  career  of 
mediaeval  art  was  affected,  not  only  in  Raphael’s  time,  but  by 
Raphael’s  own  practice,  and  by  his  practice  in  the  very  centre 
of  his  available  life. 

You  remember,  doubtless,  what  high  ground  we  have  for 
placing  the  beginning  of  human  intellectual  strength  at  about 
the  age  of  twelve  years.*  Assume,  therefore,  this  period  for 
the  beginning  of  Raphael’s  strength.  He  died  at  thirty-seven. 
And  in  his  twenty-fifth  year,  one  half-year  only  passed  the  pre- 
cise centre  of  his  available  life,  he  was  sent  for  to  Rome,  to 
decorate  the  Vatican  for  Pope  Julius  H.,  and  having  until  that 
time  worked  exclusively  in  the  ancient  and  stern  mediaeval 
manner,  he,  in  the  first  chamber  which  he  decorated  in  that 
jfalace,  wrote  upon  its  wall  the  Mene,  Tehel , Upharsin,  of  the 
| Arts  of  Christianity. 

And  he  wrote  it  thus  : On  one  wall  of  that  chamber  he 
I placed  a picture  of  the  World  or  Kingdom  of  Theology,  pre- 
sided over  by  Christ.  And  on  the  side  wall  of  that  same 
chamber  he  placed  the  World  or  Kingdom  of  Poetry,  pre- 
sided over  by  Apollo.  And  from  that  spot,  and  from  that 
hour,  the  intellect  and  the  art  of  Italy  date  their  degradation. 

Observe,  however,  the  significance  of  this  fact  is  not  in  the 
mere  use  of  the  figure  of  the  heathen  god  to  indicate  the 
domain  of  poetry.  Such  a symbolical  use  had  been  made  of 
the  figures  of  heathen  deities  in  the  best  times  of  Christian 
i art.  But  it  is  in  the  fact,  that  being  called  to  Rome  especially 
to  adorn  the  palace  of  the  so-called  head  of  the  church,  and 
called  as  the  chief  representative  of  the  Christian  artists  of  hi3 
time,  Raphael  had  neither  religion  nor  originality  enough  to 
trace  the  spirit  of  poetry  and  the  spirit  of  philosophy  to  the 
inspiration  of  the  true  God,  as  well  as  that  of  theology  ; but 
I that,  on  the  contrary,  he  elevated  the  creations  of  fancy  on  the 
* Luke  ii.  42,  49. 


324 


LECTURES  ON  ARCHITECTURE 


one  wall,  to  the  same  rank  as  the  object  of  faith  upon  the  other ; I 
that  in  deliberate,  balanced,  opposition  to  the  Rock  of  the 
Mount  Zion,  he  reared  the  rock  of  Parnassus,  and  the  rock  of 
the  Acropolis  ; that,  among  the  masters  of  poetry  we  find  him 
enthroning  Petrarch  and  Pindar,  but  not  Isaiah  nor  David,  and 
for  lords  over  the  domain  of  philosophy  we  find  the  masters  b 
of  the  school  of  Athens,  but  neither  of  those  greater  masters  | 
by  the  last  of  whom  that  school  was  rebuked, — those  who 
received  their  wisdom  from  heaven  itself,  in  the  vision  of 
Gibeon,*  and  the  lightning  of  Damascus. 

The  doom  of  the  arts  of  Europe  went  forth  from  that  cham- 
ber, and  it  was  brought  about  in  great  part  by  the  very  ex-  j| 
cellencies  of  the  man  who  had  thus  marked  the  commence-  > 
ment  of  decline.  The  perfection  of  execution  and  the  beauty  !i 
of  feature  which  were  attained  in  his  works,  and  in  those  of  his  [ . 
great  contemporaries,  rendered  finish  of  execution  and  beauty 
of  form  the  chief  objects  of  all  artists  ; and  thenceforward  exe- 
cution  was  looked  for  rather  than  thought,  and  beauty  rather  j 
than  veracity. 

And  as  I told  you,  these  are  the  two  secondary  causes  of 
the  decline  of  art ; the  first  being  the  loss  of  moral  purpose,  jfl 
Pray  note  them  clearly.  In  mediaeval  art,  thought  is  the  first  j \ 
thing,  execution  the  second  ; in  modern  art  execution  is  the 
first  thing,  and  thought  the  second.  And  again,  in  mediaeval  j 
art,  truth  is  first,  beauty  second  ; in  modern  art,  beauty  is  first,  I i 
truth  second.  The  mediaeval  principles  led  up  to  Raphael,  I 
and  the  modern  principles  lead  down  from  him. 

Now,  first,  let  me  give  you  a familiar  illustration  of  the 
difference  with  respect  to  execution.  Suppose  you  have  'to 
teach  two  children  drawing,  one  thoroughly  clever  and  active- 
rninded,  the  other  dull  and  slow  ; and  you  put  before  them 
Jullien’s  chalk  studies  of  heads — etudes  d deux  crayons — and 
desire  them  to  be  copied.  The  dull  child  will  slowly  do  your 
bidding,  blacken  his  paper  and  rub  it  white  again,  and  pa- 
tiently  and  painfully,  in  the  course  of  three  or  four  years,  at- 
tain to  the  performance  of  a chalk  head,  not  much  worse 
than  his  original,  but  still  of  less  value  than  the  paper  it  is 
* 1 Kings,  iii.  5. 


AND  PAINTING. 


325 


drawn  upon.  But  the  clever  child  will  not,  or  will  only  by 
force,  consent  to  this  discipline.  He  finds  other  means  of 
expressing  himself  with  his  pencil  somehow  or  another  ; and 
presently  you  find  his  paper  covered  with  sketches  of  his 
grandfather  and  grandmother,  and  uncles  and  cousins,— 
sketches  of  the  room,  and  the  house,  and  the  cat,  and  the 
dog,  and  the  country  outside,  and  everything  in  the  world  he 
can  set  his  eyes  on  ; and  he  gets  on,  and  even  his  child’s 
work  has  a value  in  it — a truth  which  makes  it  worth  keep- 
ing ; no  one  knows  how  precious,  perhaps,  that  portrait  of 
his  grandfather  may  be,  if  any  one  has  but  the  sense  to  keep 
it  till  the  time  when  the  old  man  can  be  seen  no  more  up  the 
lawn,  nor  by  the  wood.  That  child  is  working  in  the  middle- 
age  spirit — the  other  in  the  modern  spirit. 

But  there  is  something  still  more  striking  in  the  evils 
which  have  resulted  from  the  modern  regardlessness  of  truth. 
Consider,  for  instance,  its  effect  on  what  is  called  historical 
painting.  What  do  you  at  present  mean  by  historical  paint- 
ing ? Now-a-days,  it  means  the  endeavouring,  by  the  power 
of  imagination,  to  portray  some  historical  event  of  past  days. 
But  in  the  middle  ages,  it  meant  representing  the  acts  of  their 
own  days  ; and  that  is  the  only  historical  painting  worth  a 
straw.  Of  all  the  wastes  of  time  and  sense  which  modernism 
lias  invented — and  they  are  many — none  are  so  ridiculous  as 
this  endeavour  to  represent  past  history.  What  do  you  sup- 
pose our  descendants  will  care  for  our  imaginations  of  the 
events  of  former  days  ? Suppose  the  Greeks,  instead  of  rep- 
resenting their  own  warriors  as  they  fought  at  Marathon,  had 
left  us  nothing  but  their  imaginations  of  Egyptian  battles  • 
and  suppose  the  Italians,  in  like  manner,  instead  of  portraits 
of  Can  Grande  and  Dante,  or  of  Leo  the  Tenth,  and  Baphael, 
had  left  us  nothing  but  imaginary  portraits  of  Pericles  and 
Miltiades  ? What  fools  we  should  have  thought  them  ! how 
bitterly  we  should  have  been  provoked  with  their  folly  ! And 
that  is  precisely  what  our  descendants  will  feel  towards  us, 
so  far  as  our  grand  historical  and  classical  schools  are  con- 
cerned. What  do  we  care,  they  will  say,  what  those  nine- 
teenth century  people  fancied  about  Greek  and  Roman  his- 


326 


LECTURES  ON  ARCHITECTURE 


iory  ! If  they  had  left  us  a few  plain  and  rational  sculpture 
and  pictures  of  their  own  battles,  and  their  own  men,  in  theii 
everyday  dress,  we  should  have  thanked  them.  Well,  but, 
you  will  say,  we  have  left  them  portraits  of  our  great  men, 
and  paintings  of  our  great  battles.  Yes,  you  have  indeed, 
and  that  is  the  only  historical  painting  that  you  either  have 
or  can  have  ; but  you  don’t  call  that  historical  painting.  You 
don’t  thank  the  men  who  do  it ; you  look  down  upon  them 
and  dissuade  them  from  it,  and  tell  them  they  don’t  belong 
to  the  grand  schools.  And  yet  they  are  the  only  true  his- 
torical painters,  and  the  only  men  who  will  produce  any  effect 
on  their  own  generation,  or  on  any  other.  Wilkie  was  an 
historical  painter,  Ckantrey  an  historical  sculptor,  because 
they  painted,  or  carved,  the  veritable  things  and  men  they 
saw,  not  men  and  things  as  they  believed  they  might  have 
been,  or  should  have  been.  But  no  one  tells  such  men  they 
are  historical  painters,  and  they  are  discontented  with  what 
they  do  ; and  poor  Wilkie  must  needs  travel  to  see  the  grand 
school,  and  imitate  the  grand  school,  and  ruin  himself.  And 
you  have  had  multitudes  of  cither  painters  ruined,  from  the 
beginning,  by  that  grand  school.  There  was  Etty,  naturally 
as  good  a painter  as  ever  lived,  but  no  one  told  him  what  to 
paint,  and  he  studied  the  antique,  and  the  grand  schools,  and 
painted  dances  of  nymphs  in  red  and  yellow  shawls  to  the  end 
of  his  days.  Much  good  may  they  do  you  ! He  is  gone  to 
the  grave,  a lost  mind.  There  was  Flaxman,  another  natu- 
rally great  man,  with  as  true  an  eye  for  nature  as  Raphael, — 
he  stumbles  over  the  blocks  of  the  antique  statues — wanders 
in  the  dark  valley  of  their  ruins  to  the  end  of  his  days.  He 
has  left  you  a few  outlines  of  muscular  men  straddling  and 
frowning  behind  round  shields.  Much  good  may  they  do 
you  ! Another  lost  mind.  And  of  those  who  are  lost  name- 
lessly,  who  have  not  strength  enough  even  to  make  them- 
selves known,  the  poor  pale  students  who  he  buried  for  ever 
in  the  abysses  of  the  great  schools,  no  account  can  be  rem 
dered  ; they  are  numberless. 

And  the  wonderful  thing  is,  that  of  all  these  men  whom  you 
now  have  come  to  call  the  great  masters,  there  was  not  one 


AND  PAINTING. 


327 


who  confessedly  did  not  paint  his  own  present  world,  plainly 
and  truly.  Homer  sang  of  what  he  saw  ; Phidias  carved  what 
he  saw ; Raphael  painted  the  men  of  his  own  time  in  their 
own  caps  and  mantles  ; and  every  man  who  has  arisen  to  emi- 
nence in  modern  times  has  done  so  altogether  by  his  w orking 
in  their  way,  and  doing  the  things  he  saw'.  How  did  Reynolds 
rise?  Not  by  painting  Greek  women,  but  by  painting  the 
glorious  little  living  ladies  this,  and  ladies  that,  of  his  own 
time.  How  did  Hogarth  rise  ? Not  by  painting  Athenian 
follies,  but  London  follies.  Who  are  the  men  who  have  made 
an  impression  upon  you  yourselves, — upon  your  own  age  ? I 
suppose  the  most  popular  painter  of  the  day  is  Landseer.  Do 
you  suppose  he  studied  dogs  and  eagles  out  of  the  Elgin  Mar- 
bles ? And  yet  in  the  very  face  of  these  plain,  incontroverti- 
ble, all- visible  facts,  we  go  on  from  year  to  year  with  the  base 
system  of  Academy  teaching,  in  spite  of  which  every  one  of 
these  men  have  risen  : I say  in  spite  of  the  entire  method  and 
aim  of  our  art-teaching.  It  destroys  the  greater  number  of 
its  pupils  altogether ; it  hinders  and  paralyses  the  greatest. 
There  is  not  a living  painter  whose  eminence  is  not  in  spite  of 
everything  he  has  been  taught  from  his  youth  upwards,  and 
who,  whatever  his  eminence  may  be,  has  not  suffered  much 
injury  in  the  course  of  his  victory.  For  observe : this  love  of 
what  is  called  ideality  or  beauty  in  preference  to  truth,  oper- 
ates not  only  in  making  us  choose  the  past  rather  than  the 
present  for  our  subjects,  but  it  makes  us  falsify  the  present 
w'hen  we  do  take  it  for  our  subject.  I said  just  now  that  por- 
trait-painters were  historical  painters ; — so  they  are  ; but  not 
good  ones,  because  not  faithful  ones.  The  beginning  and  end 
of  modern  portraiture  is  adulation.  The  painters  cannot  live 
but  by  flattery  ; we  should  desert  them  if  they  spoke  honestly. 
And  therefore  we  can  have  no  good  portraiture ; for  in  the 
striving  after  that  which  is  not  in  their  model,  they  lose  the 
inner  and  deeper  nobleness  which  is  in  their  model.  I saw 
not  long  ago,  for  the  first  time,  the  portrait  of  a man  wThom  I 
knew  well, — a young  man,  but  & religious  man, — and  one  who 
had  suffered  much  from  sickness.  The  whole  dignity  of  his 
features  and  person  depended  upon  the  expression  of  serene, 


328 


LECTURES  ON  ARCHITECTURE 


yet  solemn,  purpose  sustaining  a feeble  frame ; and  the  painter 
by  way  of  flattering  him,  strengthened  him,  and  made  him 
athletic  in  body,  gay  in  countenance,  idle  in  gesture  ; and  the 
whole  power  and  being  of  the  man  himself  were  lost.  And 
this  is  still  more  the  case  with  our  public  portraits.  You 
have  a portrait,  for  instance,  of  the  Duke  of  Wellington  at  the 
end  of  the  North  Bridge, — one  of  the  thousand  equestrian 
statues  of  Modernism, — studied  from  the  showriders  of  the 
amphitheatre,  with  their  horses  on  their  hindlegs  in  the  saw- 
dust.* Do  you  suppose  that  was  the  way  the  Duke  sat  when 
your  destinies  depended  on  him  ? when  the  foam  hung  from 
the  lips  of  his  tired  horse,  and  its  wet  limbs  were  dashed  with 
the  bloody  slime  of  the  battlefield,  and  he  himself  sat  anxious 
in  his  quietness,  grieved  in  his  fearlessness,  as  he  watched, 

* I intended  this  last  sentence  of  course  to  apply  to  the  thousand  stat- 
ues, not  definitely  to  the  one  in  immediate  question,  which,  though 
tainted  with  the  modern  affectation,  and  the  nearest  example  of  it  to 
which  I could  refer  an  Edinburgh  audience,  is  the  work  of  a most  prom- 
ising sculptor  ; and  was  indeed  so  far  executed  on  the  principles  as- 
serted in  the  text,  that  the  Duke  gave  Mr.  Steele  a sitting  on  horseback, 
in  order  that  his  mode  of  riding  might  be  accurately  represented.  This, 
however  does  not  render  the  following  remarks  in  the  text  nugatory,  as 
it  may  easily  be  imagined  that  the  action  of  the  Duke,  exhibiting  his 
riding  in  his  own  grounds,  would  be  different  from  his  action,  or  inac- 
tion, when  watching  the  course  of  a battle. 

I must  also  make  a most  definite  exception  in  favour  of  Marochetti, 
who  seems  to  me  a thoroughly  great  sculptor  ; and  whose  statue  of  Cceur 
de  Lion,  though,  according  to  the  principle  just  stated,  not  to  be  consid- 
ered an  historical  work,  is  an  ideal  work  of  the  highest  beauty  and  value. 
Its  erection  in  front  of  Westminster  Hall  will  tend  more  to  educate  the 
public  eye  and  mind  with  respect  to  art,  than  anything  we  have  done  in 
London  for  centuries. 

****** 

April  21st. — I stop  the  press  in  order  to  insert  the  following  para- 
graph from  to-day’s  Times The  Statue  of  Cceuk  De  Lion.— 
Yesterday  morning  a number  of  workmen  were  engaged  in  pulling  down 
the  cast  which  was  placed  in  New  Palace  Yard  of  the  colossal  equestrian 
statue  of  Richard  Coeur  de  Lion.  Sir  C.  Barry  was,  we  believe,  opposed 
to  the  cast  remaining  there  any  longer,  and  to  the  putting  up  of  the 
statue  itself  on  the  same  site,  because  it  did  not  harmonize  with  the 
building.  During  the  day  the  horse  and  figure  were  removed,  and  be- 
fore night  the  pedestal  was  demolished  and  taken  awav.  ” 


AND  PAINTING. 


329 


scythe-stroke  by  scythe-stroke,  the  gathering  in  of  the  harvest 
of  death  ? You  would  have  done  something  had  you  thus  left 
his  image  in  the  enduring  iron,  but  nothing  now. 

But  the  time  has  at  last  come  for  all  this  to  be  put  an  end 
to  ; and  nothing  can  well  be  more  extraordinary  than  the  way 
in  which  the  men  have  risen  who  are  to  do  it.  Pupils  in  the 
same  schools,  receiving  precisely  the  same  instruction  which 
for  so  long  a time  has  paralysed  every  one  of  our  painters, — 
these  boys  agree  in  disliking  to  copy  the  antique  statues  set 
before  them.  They  copy  them  as  they  are  bid,  and  they  copy 
them  better  than  any  one  else,  they  carry  off  prize  after  prize, 
and  yet  they  hate  their  work.  At  last  they  are  admitted  to 
study  from  the  life  ; they  find  the  life  very  different  from  the 
antique,  and  say  so.  Their  teachers  tell  them  the  antique  is 
the  best,  and  they  mustn’t  copy  the  life.  They  agree  among 
themselves  that  they  like  the  life,  and  that  copy  it  they  will. 
They  do  copy  it  faithfully,  and  their  masters  forthwith  de- 
clare them  to  be  lost  men.  Their  fellow-students  hiss  them 
whenever  they  enter  the  room.  They  can’t  help  it ; they  join 
hands  and  tacitly  resist  both  the  hissing  and  the  instruction. 
Accidentally,  a few  prints  of  the  works  of  Giotto,  a few  casts 
from  those  of  Ghiberti,  fall  into  their  hands,  and  they  see  in 
these  something  they  never  saw  before — something  intensely 
and  everlastingly  true.  They  examine  farther  into  the  mat- 
ter ; they  discover  for  themselves  the  greater  part  of  wliat  I 
have  laid  before  you  to-night ; they  form  themselves  into  a 
body,  and  enter  upon  that  crusade  which  has  hitherto  been 
victorious.  And  which  will  be  absolutely  and  triumphantly 
victorious.  The  great  mistake  which  has  hitherto  prevented 
the  public  mind  from  fully  going  with  them  must  soon  be 
corrected.  That  mistake  was  the  supposition  that,  instead  of 
wishing  to  recur  to  the  principles  of  the  early  ages,  these  men 
wished  to  bring  back  the  ignorance  of  the  early  ages.  This 
notion,  grounded  first  on  some  hardness  in  their  earlier 
works,  which  resulted — as  it  must  always  result — from  the 
downright  and  earnest  effort  to  paint  nature  as  in  a looking- 
glass,  was  fostered  partly  by  the  jealousy  of  their  beaten  com- 
petitors, and  partly  by  the  pure,  perverse,  and  hopeless  igno- 


830 


LECTURES  ON  ARCHITECTURE 


ranee  of  the  'whole  body  of  art-  critics,  so  called,  connected 
with  the  press.  No  notion  was  ever  more  baseless  or  more 
ridiculous.  It  was  asserted  that  the  Pre-Raphaelites  did  not 
draw  wrell,  in  the  face  of  the  fact,  that  the  principal  membei 
of  their  body,  from  the  time  he  entered  the  schools  of  the 
Academy,  had  literally  encumbered  himself  with  the  medals, 
given  as  prizes  for  drawing.  It  was  asserted  that  they  did 
not  draw  in  perspective,  by  men  who  themselves  knew  no 
more  of  perspective  than  they  did  of  astrology  ; it  was  as- 
serted that  they  sinned  against  the  appearances  of  nature,  by 
men  who  had  never  drawn  so  much  as  a leaf  or  a blossom 
from  nature  in  their  lives.  And,  lastly,  when  all  these  cal- 
umnies or  absurdities  would  tell  no  more,  and  it  began  to  be 
forced  upon  men’s  unwilling  belief  that  the  style  of  the  Pre- 
Raphaelites  was  true  and  was  according  to  nature,  the  last 
forgery  invented  respecting  them  is,  that  they  copy  photo- 
graphs. You  observe  how  completely  this  last  piece  of  mal- 
ice defeats  all  the  rest.  It  admits  they  are  true  to  nature, 
though  only  that  it  may  deprive  them  of  all  merit  in  being  so. 
But  it  may  itself  be  at  once  refuted  by  the  bold  challenge  to 
their  opponents  to  produce  a Pre-Raphaelite  picture,  or  any- 
thing like  one,  by  themselves  copying  a photograph. 

Let  me  at  once  clear  your  minds  from  all  these  doubts,  and 
at  once  contradict  all  these  calumnies. 

Pre-Raphaelitism  has  but  one  principle,  that  of  absolute 
uncompromising  truth  in  all  that  it  does,  obtained  by  work- 
ing everything,  down  to  the  most  minute  detail,  from  nat- 
ure, and  from  nature  only.*  Every  Pre-Raphaelite  landscape 
background  is  painted  to  the  last  touch,  in  the  open  air,  from 
the  thing  itself.  Every  Pre-Raphaelite  figure,  however  stud- 
ied in  expression,  is  a true  portrait  of  some  living  person. 

* Or,  where  imagination  is  necessarily  trusted  to,  "by  always  endeavour- 
ing to  conceive  a fact  as  it  really  was  likely  to  have  happened,  rather 
than  as  it  most  prettily  might  have  happened.  The  various  memberi 
of  the  school  are  not  all  equally  severe  in  carrying  out  its  principles, 
some  of  them  trusting  their  memory  or  fancy  very  far ; only  all  agree- 
ing in  the  effort  to  make  their  memories  so  accurate  as  to  seem  like  por« 
traiture,  and  their  fancy  so  probable  as  to  seem  like  memory. 


AND  PAINTING. 


331 


Every  minute  accessory  is  painted  in  the  same  manner.  And 
one  of  the  chief  reasons  for  the  violent  opposition  with  which 
the  school  has  been  attacked  by  other  artists,  is  the  enor- 
mous cost  of  care  and  labour  which  such  a system  demands 
from  those  who  adopt  it  in  contradistinction  to  the  present 
slovenly  and  imperfect  style. 

This  is  the  main  Pre-Raphaelite  principle.  But  the  battle 
which  its  supporters  have  to  fight  is  a hard  one  ; and  for  that 
battle  they  have  been  fitted  by  a very  peculiar  character. 

You  perceive  that  the  principal  resistance  they  have  to 
make  is  to  that  spurious  beauty,  whose  attractiveness  had 
tempted  men  to  forget,  or  to  despise,  the  more  noble  quality 
of  sincerity  : and  in  order  at  once  to  put  them  beyond  the 
power  of  temptation  from  this  beauty,  they  are,  as  a body, 
characterized  by  a total  absence  of  sensibility  to  the  ordinary 
and  popular  forms  of  artistic  gracefulness  ; while,  to  all  that 
still  lower  kind  of  prettiness,  which  regulates  the  disposition 
of  our  scenes  upon  the  stage,  and  which  appears  in  our  lower 
art,  as  in  our  annuals,  our  common-place  portraits,  and  statu- 
ary, the  Pre-Raphaelites  are  not  only  dead,  but  they  regard  it 
with  a contempt  and  aversion  approaching  to  disgust.  This 
character  is  absolutely  necessary  to  them  in  the  present  time  ; 
but  it,  of  course,  occasionally  renders  their  wrork  compara- 
tively unpleasing.  As  the  school  becomes  less  aggressive, 
and  more  authoritative, — which  it  will  do, — they  will  enlist 
into  their  ranks  men  who  will  work,  mainly,  upon  their  prin- 
ciples, and  yet  embrace  more  of  those  characters  which  are 
generally  attractive,  and  this  great  ground  of  offence  will  be 
removed. 

Again  ; you  observe  that,  as  landscape  painters,  their  prin- 
ciples must,  in  great  part,  confine  them  to  mere  foreground 
work  ; and  singularly  enough,  that  they  may  not  be  tempted 
away  from  this  work,  they  have  been  born  with  comparatively 
little  enjoyment  of  those  evanescent  effects  and  distant  sub- 
limities which  nothing  but  the  memory  can  arrest,  and  noth- 
ing but  a daring  conventionalism  portray.  But  for  this  work 
they  are  not  needed.  Turner  had  done  it  before  them  ; he, 
though  his  capacity  embraced  everything,  and  though  he 


332 


LECTURES  ON  ARCHITECTURE 


would  sometimes,  in  liis  foregrounds,  paint  the  spots  upon  a 
dead  trout,  and  the  dyes  upon  a butterfly’s  wing,  yet  for  the 
most  part  delighting  to  begin  at  that  very  point  where  Pre- 
Raphaelitism  becomes  powerless. 

Lastly.  The  habit  of  constantly  carrying  everything  up  to 
' the  utmost  point  of  completion  deadens  the  Pre-Raphaelites 
in  general  to  the  merits  of  men  who,  with  an  equal  love  of 
truth  up  to  a certain  point,  yet  express  themselves  habitually 
with  speed  and  power,  rather  than  with  finish,  and  give  ab- 
stracts of  truth  rather  than  total  truth.  Probably  to  the  end 
of  time  artists  will  more  or  less  be  divided  into  these  classes, 
and  it  will  be  impossible  to  make  men  like  Millais  understand 
the  merits  of  men  like  Tintoret ; but  this  is  the  more  to  be 
regretted  because  the  Pre-Raphaelites  have  enormous  powers 
of  imagination,  ■well  as  of  realisation,  and  do  not  yet  them- 
selves know  of  how  much  they  would  be  capable,  if  they  some- 
times worked  on  a larger  scale,  and  with  a less  laborious  fin- 
ish. 

With  all  their  faults,  their  pictures  are,  since  Turner’s  death, 
the  best — incomparably  the  best — on  the  walls  of  the  Royal 
Academy  ; and  such  works  as  Mr.  Hunt’s  Claudio  and  Isabella 
have  never  been  rivalled,  in  some  respects  never  approached, 
at  any  other  period  of  art. 

This  I believe  to  be  a most  candid  statement  of  all  their 
faults  and  all  their  deficiencies  ; not  such,  you  perceive,  as 
are  likely  to  arrest  their  progress.  The  “ magna  est  veritas  ” 
was  never  more  sure  of  accomplishment  than  by  these  men. 
Their  adversaries  have  no  chance  with  them.  They  will  grad- 
ually unite  their  influence  with  whatever  is  true  or  powerful 
in  the  reactionary  art  of  other  countries  ; and  on  their  works 
such  a school  will  be  founded  as  shall  justify  the  third  age  of 
the  world’s  civilisation,  and  render  it  as  great  in  creation  as  it 
has  been  in  discovery. 

And  now  let  me  remind  you  but  of  one  thing  more.  As 
you  examine  into  the  career  of  historical  painting,  you  will  be 
more  and  more  struck  with  the  fact  I have  this  evening  stated 
to  you, — that  none  was  ever  truly  great  but  that  which  repre- 
sented the  living  forms  and  daily  deeds  of  the  people  among 


AND  PAINTING. 


33a 


whom  it  arose  that  all  precious  historical  work  records,  not 
the  past  but  the  present.  Remember,  therefore,  that  it  is  not 
so  much  in  buying  pictures,  as  in  being  pictures,  that  you  can 
encourage  a noble  school.  The  best  patronage  of  art  is  not 
that  which  seeks  for  the  pleasures  of  sentiment  in  a vague 
ideality,  nor  for  beauty  of  form  in  a marble  image ; but  that 
which  educates  your  children  into  living  heroes,  and  binds 
down  the  flights  and  the  fondnesses  of  the  heart  into  practical 
duty  and  faithful  devotion. 


334 


LECTURES  ON  ARCHITECTURE 


ADDENDA 

TO 

THE  FOURTH  LECTURE. 


I could  not  enter,  in  a popular  lecture,  upon  one  intricate 
and  difficult  question,  closely  connected  with  the  subject  of 
Pre-Rapliaelitism — namely,  the  relation  of  invention  to  obser- 
vation ; and  composition  to  imitation.  It  is  still  less  a question 
to  be  discussed  in  the  compass  of  a note  ; and  I must  defer 
all  careful  examination  of  it  to  a future  opportunity.  Never- 
theless, it  is  impossible  to  leave  altogether  unanswered  the 
first  objection  which  is  now  most  commonly  made  to  the  Pre- 
Raphaelite  work,  namely,  that  the  principle  of  it  seems  ad- 
verse to  all  exertion  of  imaginative  power.  Indeed,  such  an 
objection  sounds  strangely  on  the  lips  of  a public  who  have 
been  in  the  habit  of  purchasing  for  hundreds  of  pounds,  small 
squares  of  Dutch  canvas,  containing  only  servile  imitations 
of  the  coarsest  nature.  It  is  strange  that  an  imitation  of  a 
cow’s  head  by  Paul  Potter,  or  of  an  old  woman’s  by  Ostade, 
or  of  a scene  of  tavern  debauchery  by  Teniers,  should  be  pur- 
chased and  proclaimed  for  high  art,  while  the  rendering  of 
the  most  noble  expressions  of  human  feeling  in  Hunt’s 
Isabella,  or  of  the  loveliest  English  landscape,  haunted  by  sor- 
row, in  Millais’  Ophelia,  should  be  declared  “ puerile.”  But, 
strange  though  the  utterance  of  it  be,  there  is  some  weight 
in  the  objection.  It  is  true  that  so  long  as  the  Pre-Raphael- 
ites only  paint  from  nature,  however  carefully  selected  and 
grouped,  their  pictures  can  never  have  the  characters  of  the 
highest  class  of  compositions.  But,  on  the  other  hand,  the 
shallow  and  conventional  arrangements  commonly  called 
“ compositions  ” by  the  artists  of  the  present  day,  are  in« 


AND  PAINTING. 


335 


finitely  farther  from  great  art  than  the  most  patient  work 
of  the  Pre-Raphaelites.  That  work  is,  even  in  its  humblest 
form,  a secure  foundation,  capable  of  infinite  superstructure ; 
a reality  of  true  value,  as  far  as  it  reaches,  while  the  common 
artistical  effects  and  groupings  are  a vain  effort  at  superstruch 
ure  without  foundation — utter  negation  and  fallacy  from 
beginning  to  end. 

But  more  than  this,  the  very  faithfulness  of  the  Pre-Rapli- 
aelites  arises  from  the  redundance  of  their  imaginative  power. 
Not  only  can  all  the  members  of  the  school  compose  a thou- 
sand times  better  than  the  men  who  pretend  to  look  down 
upon  them,  but  I question  whether  even  the  greatest  men  of 
old  times  possessed  more  exhaustless  invention  than  either 
Millais  or  Rossetti  ; and  it  is  partly  the  very  ease  with  which 
they  invent  which  leads  them  to  despise  invention.  Men  who 
have  no  imagination,  but  have  learned  merely  to  produce  a 
spurious  resemblance  of  its  results  by  the  recipes  of  composi- 
tion, are  apt  to  value  themselves  mightily  on  their  concoctive 
science  ; but  the  man  whose  mind  a thousand  living  imagi- 
nations haunt,  every  hour,  is  apt  to  care  too  little  for  them  ; and 
to  long  for  the  perfect  truth  which  he  finds  is  not  to  be  come 
at  so  easily.  And  though  I may  perhaps  hesitatingly  admit 
that  it  is  possible  to  love  this  truth  of  reality  too  intensely, 
yet  I have  no  hesitation  in  declaring  that  there  is  no  hope  for 
those  who  despise  it,  and  that  the  painter,  whoever  he  be,  who 
despises  the  pictures  already  produced  by  the  Pre-Raphael- 
ites, has  himself  no  capacity  of  becoming  a great  painter  of 
any  kind.  Paul  Veronese  and  Tintoret  themselves,  without 
desiring  to  imitate  the  Pre-Raphaelite  work,  would  have  looked 
upon  it  with  deep  respect,  as  John  Bellini  looked  on  that  of 
Albert  Durer ; none  but  the  ignorant  could  be  unconscious 
of  its  truth,  and  none  but  the  insincere  regardless  of  it. 
How  far  it  is  possible  for  men  educated  on  the  severest  Pre- 
Raphaelite  principles  to  advance  from  their  present  style  into 
that  of  the  great  schools  of  composition,  I do  not  care  to  in- 
quire, for  at  this  period  such  an  advance  is  certainly  not  de- 
sirable. Of  great  compositions  we  have  enough,  and  more 
than  enough,  and  it  would  be  well  for  the  world  if  it  were 


336 


LECTURES  ON  ARCHITECTURE 


willing  to  take  some  care  of  those  it  has.  Of  pure  and  manty 
truth,  of  stern  statement  of  the  things  done  and  seen  around 
us  daily,  we  have  hitherto  had  nothing.  And  in  art,  as  in  all 
other  things,  besides  the  literature  of  which  it  speaks,  that 
sentence  of  Carlyle  is  inevitably  and  irreversibly  true  “ Day 
after  day,  looking  at  the  high  destinies  which  yet  await  litera° 
ture,  which  literature  will  ere  long  address  herself  with  more 
decisiveness  than  ever  to  fulfil,  it  grows  clearer  to  us  that  the 
proper  task  of  literature  lies  in  the  domain  of  Belief,  within 
which,  poetic  fiction,  as  it  is  charitably  named,  will  have 
to  take  a quite  new  figure,  if  allowed  a settlement  there. 
Whereby  were  it  not 'reasonable  to  prophecy  that  this  exceed- 
ing great  multitude  of  novel  writers  and  such  like,  must,  in 
a new  generation,  gradually  do  one  of  two  things,  either  retire 
into  nurseries,  and  work  for  children,  minors,  and  semifatu- 
ous  persons  of  both  sexes,  or  else,  what  were  far  better,  sweep 
their  novel-fabric  into  the  dust  cart,  and  betake  them,  with 
such  faculty  as  they  have,  to  understand  and  record  what  is  true, 
of  which  surely  there  is  and  for  ever  will  be  a whole  infinitude 
unknown  to  us,  of  infinite  importance  to  us.  Poetry  will 
more  and  more  come  to  be  understood  as  nothing  but  higher 
knowledge,  and  the  only  genuine  Romance  for  grown  persons, 
Reality.” 

As  I was  copying  this  sentence,  a pamphlet  was  put  into 
my  hand,  written  by  a clergyman,  denouncing  “ Woe,  woe, 
wToe  ! to  exceedingly  young  men  of  stubborn  instincts  calling 
themselves  Pre-Raphaelites.”  * 

I thank  God  that  the  Pre-Raphaelites  are  young,  and  that 
strength  is  still  with  them,  and  life,  with  all  the  war  of  it,  still 
in  front  of  them.  Yet  Everett  Millais  is  this  year  of  the  exact 
age  at  which  Raphael  painted  the  Disputa,  his  greatest  work  ; 
Rossetti  and  Hunt  are  both  of  them  older  still, — nor  is  there 
one  member  of  the  body  so  young  as  Giotto,  when  he  was 
chosen  from  among  the  painters  of  Italy  to  decorate  the  Vatb 

* Art,  its  Constitution  and  Capacities,  &c.  by  the  Rev.  Edward  Young, 
M.A.  The  phrase  “exceedingly  young  men,  of  stubborn  instincts,’’  be- 
ing twice  quoted  (carefully  excluding  the  context)  from  my  pamphlet 
en  lJre-Raphaelitism. 


AND  PAINTING. 


337 


can.  But  Italy,  in  her  great  period,  knew  her  great  men,  and 
did  not  “ despise  their  youth.”  It  is  reserved  for  England  to 
insult  the  strength  of  her  noblest  children — -to  wither  their 
warm  enthusiasm  early  into  the  bitterness  of  patient  battle, 
and  leave  to  those  whom  she  should  have  cherished  and  aided, 
no  hope  but  in  resolution,  no  refuge  but  in  disdain. 

Indeed  it  is  woeful,  when  the  young  usurp  the  place,  or  de- 
spise the  wisdom,  of  the  aged  ; and  among  the  many  dark 
signs  of  these  times,  the  disobedience  and  insolence  of  youth 
are  among  the  darkest.  But  with  whom  is  the  fault?  Youth 
never  yet  lost  its  modesty  where  age  had  not  lost  its  honour ; 
nor  did  childhood  ever  refuse  its  reverence,  except  where  age 
had  forgotten  correction.  The  cry,  “Go  up  thou  bald  head,” 
will  never  be  heard  in  the  land  which  remembers  the  precept, 
“ See  that  ye  despise  not  one  of  these  little  ones ; ” and  al- 
though indeed  youth  may  become  despicable,  when  its  eager 
hope  is  changed  into  presumption,  and  its  progressive  power 
into  arrested  pride,  there  is  something  more  despicable  still, 
in  the  old  age  which  has  learned  neither  judgment  nor  gen- 
tleness, which  is  weak  without  charity,  and  cold  without  dis* 
cretion. 


■ * T 

'■ 

} 

■ 

* 

.11:  '■{  •■  ; / : 


AN  INQUIRY 

INTO  SOME  OF 

THE  CONDITIONS  AT  PRESENT  AFFECTING 

THE  STUDY  OF  ARCHITECTURE 

IN  OUR  SCHOOLS 


Read  at  the  Ordinary  General  Meeting  of  the  Royal  Institute  of 
British  Architects , May  15,  18G5. 


THE  STUDY  OF  ARCHITECTURE, 


I suppose  there  is  no  man  who,  permitted  to  address,  for  the 
first  time,  the  Institute  of  British  Architects,  would  not  feel 
himself  abashed  and  restrained,  doubtful  of  his  claim  to  be 
heard  by  them,  even  if  he  attempted  only  to  describe  what 
had  come  under  his  personal  observation,  much  more  if  on 
the  occasion  he  thought  it  would  be  expected  of  him  to 
touch  upon  any  of  the  general  principles  of  the  art  of  archi- 
tecture before  its  principal  English  masters. 

But  if  any  more  than  another  should  feel  thus  abashed,  it 
is  certainly  one  who  has  first  to  ask  their  pardon  for  the  petu- 
lance of  boyish  expressions  of  partial  thought ; for  ungraceful 
advocacy  of  principles  which  needed  no  support  from  him, 
and  discourteous  blame  of  work  of  which  he  had  never  felt 
the  difficulty. 

Yet,  when  I ask  this  pardon,  gentlemen — and  I do  it  sin- 
cerely and  in  shame — it  is  not  as  desiring  to  retract  anything 
in  the  general  tenor  and  scope  of  what  I have  hitherto  tried 
to  say.  Permit  me  the  pain,  and  the  apparent  impertinence, 
of  speaking  for  a moment  of  my  own  past  work  ; for  it  is 
necessary  that  what  I am  about  to  submit  to  you  to-niglit 
should  be  spoken  in  no  disadvantageous  connection  with  that ; 
and  yet  understood  as  spoken  in  no  discordance  of  purpose 
with  that.  Indeed,  there  is  much  in  old  work  of  mine  which 
I could  wish  to  put  out  of  mind.  Reasonings,  perhaps  not 
in  themselves  false,  but  founded  on  insufficient  data  and 
imperfect  experience — eager  preferences,  and  dislikes,  depend- 
ent on  chance  circumstances  of  association,  and  limitations 
of  sphere  of  labour : but,  while  I would  fain  now,  if  I could. 


34:  2 


THE  STUDY  OF  ARCHITECTURE. 


modify  tlie  applications,  and  chasten  the  extravagance  of  my 
writings,  let  me  also  say  of  them  that  they  were  the  expres- 
sion of  a delight  in  the  art  of  architecture  which  was  too 
intense  to  be  vitally  deceived,  and  of  an  inquiry  too  honest 
and  eager  to  be  without  some  useful  result ; and  I only  wish 
I had  now  time,  and  strength,  and  power  of  mind,  to  carrj 
on  more  worthily,  the  main  endeavour  of  my  early  work 
That  main  endeavour  has  been  throughout  to  set  forth  the 
life  of  the  individual  human  spirit  as  modifying  the  applica- 
tion of  the  formal  laws  of  architecture,  no  less  than  of  all 
other  arts  ; and  to  show  that  the  power  and  advance  of  this 
art,  even  in  conditions  of  former  nobleness,  were  dependent 
on  its  just  association  with  sculpture  as  a means  of  expressing 
the  beauty  of  natural  forms : and  I the  more  boldly  ask  your 
permission  to  insist  somewhat  on  this  main  meaning  of  my 
past  work,  because  there  are  many  buildings  now  rising  in 
the  streets  of  London,  as  in  other  cities  of  England,  which 
appear  to  be  designed  in  accordance  with  this  principle,  and 
which  are,  I believe,  more  offensive  to  all  who  thoughtfully 
concur  with  me  in  accepting  the  principle  of  Naturalism  than 
they  are  to  the  classical  architect  to  whose  modes  of  design 
they  are  visibly  antagonistic.  These  buildings,  in  which  the 
mere  cast  of  a flower,  or  the  realization  of  a vulgar  face, 
carved  without  pleasure  by  a workman  who  is  only  endeav- 
ouring to  attract  attention  by  novelty,  and  then  fastened 
on,  or  appearing  to  be  fastened,  as  chance  may  dictate,  to 
an  arch,  or  a pillar,  or  a wall,  hold  such  relation  to  nobly 
naturalistic  architecture  as  common  sign-painter’s  furniture 
landscapes  do  to  painting,  or  commonest  wax-work  to  Greek 
sculpture  ; and  the  feelings  with  which  true  naturalists  regard 
such  buildings  of  this  class  are,  as  nearly  as  might  be,  what 
a painter  would  experience,  if,  having  contended  earnestly 
against  conventional  schools,  and  having  asserted  that  the 
Greek  vase-painting,  and  Egyptian  wall-painting,  and  Mediae- 
val glass-painting,  though  beautiful,  all,  in  their  place  and 
way,  were  yet  subordinate  arts,  and  culminated  only  in  per- 
fectly naturalistic  work  such  as  Raphael’s  in  fresco,  and 
Titian  s on  canvas  ; — if,  I say,  a painter,  fixed  in  such  faitl} 


THE  STUDY  OF  ARCHITECTURE. 


343 


in  an  entire,  intellectual,  and  manly  truth,  and  maintaining 
that  an  Egyptian  profile  of  a head,  however  decoratively  ap- 
plicable, was  only  noble  for  such  human  truth  as  it  contained, 
and  was  imperfect  and  ignoble  beside  a work  of  Titian’s, 
were  shown,  by  his  antagonist,  the  colored  daguerreotype  of 
a human  body  in  its  nakedness,  and  told  that  it  was  art  such 
as  that  which  he  really  advocated,  and  to  such  art  that  his 
principles,  if  carried  out,  would  finally  lead. 

And  because  this  question  lies  at  the  very  root  of  the  or- 
ganization of  the  system  of  instruction  for  our  youth,  I vent- 
ure boldly  to  express  the  surprise  and  regret  with  which  I 
see  our  schools  still  agitated  by  assertions  of  the  opposition 
of  Naturalism  to  Invention,  and  to  the  higher  conditions  of 
art.  Even  in  this  very  room  I believe  there  has  lately  been 
question  whether  a sculptor  should  look  at  a real  living 
creature  of  which  he  had  to  carve  the  image.  I would  answer 
in  one  sense, — no  ; that  is  to  say,  he  ought  to  carve  no  living 
creature  while  he  still  needs  to  look  at  it.  If  we  do  not  know 
what  a human  body  is  like,  we  certainly  had  better  look,  and 
look  often,  at  it,  before  we  carve  it ; but  if  we  already  know 
the  human  likeness  so  well  that  we  can  carve  it  by  light  of 
memory,  we  shall  not  need  to  ask  whether  we  ought  now  to 
look  at  it  or  not ; and  what  is  true  of  man  is  true  of  all  other 
creatures  and  organisms — of  bird,  and  beast,  and  leaf.  No 
assertion  is  more  at  variance  with  the  laws  of  classical  as 
well  as  of  subsequent  art  than  the  common  one  that  species 
should  not  be  distinguished  in  great  design.  We  might  as 
well  say  that  we  ought  to  carve  a man  so  as  not  to  know  him 
from  an  ape,  as  that  we  should  carve  a lily  so  as  not  to  know 
it  from  a thistle.  It  is  difficult  for  me  to  conceive  how  this 
can  be  asserted  in  the  presence  of  anj^  remains  either  of  great 
Greek  or  Italian  art.  A Greek  looked  at  a cockle-shell  or  a 
cuttle-fish  as  carefully  as  he  looked  at  an  Olympic  conqueror. 
The  eagle  of  Elis,  the  lion  of  Yelia,  the  horse  of  Syracuse,  the 
bull  of  Thurii,  the  dolphin  of  Tarentum,  the  crab  of  Agrigen- 
tum,  and  the  crawfish  of  Catana,  are  studied  as  closely,  every 
one  of  them,  as  the  Juno  of  Argos,  or  Apollo  of  Clazomenae. 
Idealism,  so  far  from  being  contrary  to  special  truth,  is  the 


344 


THE  STUDY  OF  ARCHITECTURE. 


very  abstraction  of  specialty  from  everything  else.  It  is  the 
earnest  statement  of  the  characters  which  make  man  man, 
and  cockle  cockle,  and  flesh  flesh,  and  fish  fish.  Feeble 
thinkers  iudeed,  always  suppose  that  distinction  of  kind  in- 
volves meanness  of  style  ; but  the  meanness  is  in  the  treat- 
ment, not  in  the  distinction.  There  is  a noble  way  of  carving 
a man,  and  a mean  one  ; and  there  is  a noble  way  of  carving 
a beetle,  and  a mean  one  ; and  a great  sculptor  carves  his 
scarabaeus  grandly,  as  he  carves  his  king,  while  a mean 
sculptor  makes  vermin  of  both.  And  it  is  a sorrowful  truth, 
yet  a sublime  one,  that  this  greatness  of  treatment  cannot  be 
taught  by  talking  about  it.  No,  nor  even  by  enforced  imita- 
tive practice  of  it.  Men  treat  their  subjects  nobly  only  when 
they  themselves  become  noble  ; not  till  then.  And  that  ele- 
vation of  their  own  nature  is  assuredly  not  to  be  effected  by 
a course  of  drawing  from  models,  however  vrell  chosen,  or  of 
listening  to  lectures,  however  w^ell  intended. 

Art,  national  or  individual,  is  the  result  of  a long  course  of 
previous  life  and  training  ; a necessary  result,  if  that  life  has 
been  loyal,  and  an  impossible  one,  if  it  has  been  base.  Let  a 
nation  be  healthful,  happy,  pure  in  its  enjoyments,  brave  in 
its  acts,  and  broad  in  its  affections,  and  its  art  will  spring 
round  and  within  it  as  freely  as  the  foam  from  a fountain  ; 
but  let  the  springs  of  its  life  be.  impure,  and  its  course  pol- 
luted, and  you  will  not  get  the  bright  spray  by  treatises  on 
the  mathematical  structure  of  bubbles. 

And  I am  to-night  the  more  restrained  in  addressing  you, 
because,  gentlemen — I tell  you  honestly — I am  weary  of  all 
writing  and  speaking  about  art,  and  most  of  my  own.  No 
good  is  to  be  reached  that  Way.  The  last  fifty  years  have,  in 
every  civilized  country  of  Europe,  produced  more  brilliant 
thought,  and  more  subtle  reasoning  about  art,  than  the  five 
thousand  before  them  ; and  what  has  it  all  come  to?  Do  not 
let  it  be  thought  that  I am  insensible  to  the  high  merits  of 
much  of  our  modern  wrork.  It  cannot  be  for  a moment  sup- 
posed that  in  speaking  of  the  inefficient  expression  of  the 
doctrines  which  writers  on  art  have  tried  to  enforce,  I was 
thinking  such  Gothic  as  has  been  designed  and  built  by 


THE  STUDY  OF  ARCHITECTURE. 


345 


Mr.  Scott,  Mr.  Butterfield,  Mr.  Street,  Mr.  Waterhouse,  Mr. 
Godwin,  or  my  dead  friend,  Mr.  Woodward.  Their  work 
has  been  original  and  independent.  So  far  as  it  is  good,  it 
has  been  founded  on  principles  learned  not  from  books,  but 
by  study  of  the  monuments  of  the  great  schools,  developed 
by  national  grandeur,  not  by  philosophical  speculation.  But 
I am  entirely  assured  that  those  who  have  done  best  among 
us  are  the  least  satisfied  with  what  they  have  done,  and  will 
admit  a sorrowful  concurrence  in  my  belief  that  the  spirit,  or 
rather,  I should  say,  the  dispirit,  of  the  age,  is  heavily 
against  them  ; that  all  the  ingenious  writing  or  thinking 
which  is  so  rife  amongst  us  has  failed  to  educate  a public 
capable  of  taking  true  pleasure  in  any  kind  of  art,  and  that 
the  best  designers  never  satisfy  their  own  requirements  of 
themselves,  unless  by  vainly  addressing  another  temper  of 
mind,  and  providing  for  another  manner  of  life,  than  ours. 
All  lovely  architecture  was  designed  for  cities  in  cloudless 
air ; for  cities  in  which  piazzas  and  gardens  opened  in  bright 
populousness  and  peace  ; cities  built  that  men  might  live 
happily  in  them,  and  take  delight  daily  in  each  other’s  pres- 
ence and  powers.  But  our  cities,  built  in  black  air,  which, 
by  its  accumulated  foulness,  first  renders  all  ornament  invisi- 
ble in  distance,  and  then  chokes  its  interstices  with  soot ; 
cities  which  are  mere  crowded  masses  of  store,  and  ware- 
house, and  counter,  and  are  therefore  to  the  rest  of  the 
world  what  the  larder  and  cellar  are  to  a private  house ; 
cities  in  which  the  object  of  men  is  not  life,  but  labour  ; and 
in  which  all  chief  magnitude  of  edifice  is  to  enclose  machin- 
ery ; cities  in  which  the  streets  are  not  the  avenues  for  the 
passing  and  procession  of  a happy  people,  but  the  drains  for 
the  discharge  of  a tormented  mob,  in  which  the  only  object 
in  reaching  any  spot  is  to  be  transferred  to  another ; in  which 
existence  becomes  mere  transition,  and  every  creature  is  only 
one  atom  in  a drift  of  human  dust,  and  current  of  inter- 
changing particles,  circulating  here  by  tunnels  under  ground, 
and  there  by  tubes  in  the  air ; for  a city,  or  cities,  such  as 
this,  no  architecture  i3  possible — nay,  no  desire  of  it  is  pos- 
sible to  their  inhabitants. 


346 


THE  ST  ED  7 OF  ARCHITECTURE. 


One  of  the  most  singular  proofs  of  the  vanity  of  all  hope 
that  conditions  of  art  may  be  combined  with  the  occupations 
of  such  a city,  has  been  given  lately  in  the  design  of  the  new 
iron  bridge  over  the  Thames  at  Blackf  riars.  Distinct  attempt 
has  been  there  made  to  obtain  architectural  effect  on  a grand 
scale.  Nor  was  there  anything  in  the  nature  of  the  work  to 
prevent  such  an  effort  being  successful.  It  is  not  an  edifice’s 
being  of  iron,  or  of  glass,  or  thrown  into  new  forms,  de- 
manded by  new  purposes,  which  need  hinder  its  being  beau- 
tiful. But  it  is  the  absence  of  all  desire  of  beauty,  of  all  joy 
in  fancy,  and  of  all  freedom  in  thought.  If  a Greek,  or  Egyp- 
tian, or  Gothic  architect  had  been  required  to  design  such  a 
bridge,  he  would  have  looked  instantly  at  the  main  conditions 
of  its  structure,  and  dwelt  on  them  with  the  delight  of  imag- 
ination. He  would  have  seen  that  the  main  thing  to  be  done 
was  to  hold  a horizontal  group  of  iron  rods  steadily  and 
straight  over  stone  piers.  Then  he  would  have  said  to  him- 
self (or  felt  without  saying),  “ It  is  this  holding, — this  grasp, 
— this  securing  tenor  of  a thing  which  might  be  shaken,  so 
that  it  cannot  be  shaken,  on  which  I have  to  insist.”  And 
he  would  have  put  some  life  into  those  iron  tenons.  As 
a Greek  put  human  life  into  his  pillars  and  produced  the 
caryatid  ; and  an  Egyptian  lotos  life  into  his  pillars,  and  pro- 
duced the  lily  capital : so  here,  either  of  them  would  have 
put  some  gigantic  or  some  angelic  life  into  those  colossal 
sockets.  He  would  perhaps  have  put  vast  winged  statues  of 
bronze,  folding  their  wings,  and  grasping  the  iron  rails  with 
their  hands  ; or  monstrous  eagles,  or  serpents  holding  with 
claw  or  coil,  or  strong  four-footed  animals  couchant,  holding 
with  the  paw,  or  in  fierce  action,  holding  with  teeth.  Thou- 
sands of  grotesque  or  of  lovely  thoughts  would  have  risen 
before  him,  and  the  bronze  forms,  animal  or  human,  would 
have  signified,  either  in  symbol  or  in  legend,  whatever  might 
be  gracefully  told  respecting  the  purposes  of  the  work  and 
the  districts  to  which  it  conducted.  Whereas,  now,  the  en- 
tire invention  of  the  designer  seems  to  have  exhausted  itself 
in  exaggerating  to  an  enormous  size  a weak  form  of  iron  nut, 
and  in  conveying  the  information  upon  it,  in  large  letters 


THE  STUDY  OF  ARCHITECTURE. 


347 


that  it  belongs  to  the  London,  Chatham,  and  Dover  Railway 
Company.  I believe,  then,  gentlemen,  that  if  there  were  any 
life  in  the  national  mind  in  such  respects,  it  would  be  shown 
in  these  its  most  energetic  and  costly  works.  But  that  there 
is  no  such  life,  nothing  but  a galvanic  restlessness  and  cov- 
etousness, with  which  it  is  for  the  present  vain  to  strive  ; and 
in  the  midst  of  which,  tormented  at  once  by  its  activities  and 
its  apathies,  having  their  work  continually  thrust  aside  and 
dishonoured,  always  seen  to  disadvantage,  and  overtopped  by 
huge  masses,  discordant  and  destructive,  even  the  best  archi- 
tects must  be  unable  to  do  justice  to  their  own  powers. 

But,  gentlemen,  while  thus  the  mechanisms  of  the  age  pre- 
vent even  the  wisest  and  best  of  its  artists  from  producing 
entirely  good  work,  may  we  not  reflect  with  consternation 
what  a marvellous  ability  the  luxury  of  the  age,  and  the  very 
advantages  of  education,  confer  on  the  unwise  and  ignoble 
for  the  production  of  attractively  and  infectiously  bad  work. 
I do  not  think  that  this  adverse  influence,  necessarily  affecting 
all  conditions  of  so-called  civilization,  has  been  ever  enough 
considered.  It  is  impossible  to  calculate  the  power  of  the 
false  workman  in  an  advanced  period  of  national  life,  nor  the 
temptation  to  all  workmen  to  become  false. 

First,  there  is  the  irresistible  appeal  to  vanity.  There  is 
hardly  any  temptation  of  the  kind  (there  cannot  be)  while 
the  arts  are  in  progress.  The  best  men  must  then  always  be 
ashamed  of  themselves  ; they  never  can  be  satisfied  with  their 
work  absolutely,  but  only  as  it  is  progressive.  Take,  for  in- 
stance, any  archaic  head  intended  to  be  beautiful ; say,  the 
Attic  Athena,  on  the  early  Arethusa  of  Syracuse.  In  that,  and 
in  all  archaic  -work  of  promise,  there  is  much  that  is  inefficient, 
much  that  to  us  appears  ridiculous — but  nothing  sensual, 
nothing  vain,  nothing  spurious  or  imitative.  It  is  a child’s 
work,  a childish  nation’s  wrork,  but  not  a fool’s  work.  You 
find  in  children  the  same  tolerance  of  ugliness,  the  same  eager 
and  innocent  delight  in  their  own  work  for  the  moment,  how- 
ever feeble  ; but  next  day  it  is  thrown  aside,  and  something 
better  is  done.  Now,  in  this  careless  play,  a child  or  a child- 
ish nation  differs  inherently  from  a foolish  educated  person, 


348  THE  STUDY  OF  ARCHITECTURE. 

or  a nation  advanced  in  pseudo-civilization.  The  educated 
person  has  seen  all  kinds  of  beautiful  things,  of  which  he 
would  fain  do  the  like — not  to  add  to  their  number — but  for 
his  own  vanity,  that  he  also  may  be  called  an  artist.  Here  is 
at  once  a singular  and  fatal  difference.  The  childish  nation 
sees  nothing  in  its  own  past  work  to  satisfy  itself.  It  ip 
pleased  at  having  done  this,  but  wants  something  better ; it 
is  struggling  forward  always  to  reach  this  better,  this  ideal  ; 
conception.  It  wants  more  beauty  to  look  at,  it  wants  more 
subject  to  feel.  It  calls  out  to  all  its  artists— stretching  its  i 
hands  to  them  as  a little  child  does— “Oh,  if  you  would  but 
tell  me  another  story,”— “ Oh,  if  I might  but  have  a doll  with 
bluer  eyes.”  That’s  the  right  temper  to  work  in,  and  to  get 
work  done  for  you  in.  But  the  vain,  aged,  highly-educated 
nation  is  satiated  with  beautiful  things — it  has  myriads  more 
than  it  can  look  at ; it  has  fallen  into  a habit  of  inattention  , 
it  passes  weary  and  jaded  through  galleries  which  contain  the 
best  fruit  of  a thousand  years  of  human  travail ; it  gapes  and 
shrugs  over  them,  and  pushes  its  way  past  them  to  the  door. 
But  there  is  one  feeling  that  is  always  distinct;  however  jaded 
and  languid  we  may  be  in  all  other  pleasures,  we  are  never 
languid  in  vanity,  and  we  would  still  paint  and  carve  for  fame. 
What  other  motive  have  the  nations  of  Europe  to-day  ? If 
they  wanted  art  for  art’s  sake,  they  would  take  care  of  what  they 
have  already  got.  But  at  this  instant  the  two  noblest  pictures 
in  Venice  are  lying  rolled  up  in  out-houses,  and  the  noblest 
portrait  of  Titian  in  existence  is  hung  forty  feet  from  the 
ground.  We  have  absolutely  no  motive  but  vanity  and  the 
love  of  money— -no  others,  as  nations,  than  these,  whatever 
we  may  have  as  individuals.  And  as  the  thirst  of  vanity  thus 
increases,  so  the  temptation  to  it.  There  was  no  fame  of  ar- 
tists in  these  archaic  days.  Every  year,  every  hour,  saw  some 
one  rise  to  surpass  what  had  been  done  before.  And  there 
was  always  better  work  to  be  done,  but  never  any  credit  to  be 
got  by  it.  The  artist  lived  in  an  atmosphere  of  perpetual, 
wholesome,  inevitable  eclipse.  Do  as  well  as  you  choose  to- 
day, — make  the  whole  Borgo  dance  with  delight,  they  would 
dance  to  a better  man’s  pipe  to-morrow.  Credette  Cimcibue 


THE  STUDY  OF  ARCHITECTURE. 


349 


nella  pittura,  terier  Id  campo,  et  ora  lia  Giotto  il  gride.  This 
was  the  fate,  the  necessary  fate,  even  of  the  strongest.  They 
could  only  hope  to  be  remembered  as  links  in  an  endless 
chain.  For  the  weaker  men  it  was  no  use  even  to  put  their 
name  on  their  works.  They  did  not.  If  they  could  not  work 
for  joy  and  for  love,  and  take  their  part  simply  in  the  choir 
of  human  toil,  they  might  throw  up  their  tools.  But  now  it 
is  far  otherwise — now,  the  best  having  been  done — a'nd  for  a 
couple  of  hundred  years,  the  best  of  us  being  confessed  to 
have  come  short  of  it,  everybody  thinks  that  he  may  be  the 
great  man  once  again ; and  this  is  certain,  that  whatever  in 
art  is  done  for  display,  is  invariably  wrong. 

But,  secondly,  consider  the  attractive  powTer  of  false  art, 
completed,  as  compared  with  imperfect  art  advancing  to  com- 
pletion. Archaic  work,  so  far  as  faultful,  is  repulsive ; but 
advanced  work  is,  in  all  its  faults,  attractive.  The  moment 
that  art  has  reached  the  point  at  which  it  becomes  sensitively 
and  delicately  imitative,  it  appeals  to  a newr  audience.  From 
that  instant  it  addresses  the  sensualist  and  the  idler.  Its  de- 
ceptions, its  successes,  its  subtleties,  become  interesting  to 
every  condition  of  folly,  of  frivolity,  and  of  vice.  And  this 
new  audience  brings  to  bear  upon  the  art  in  which  its  foolish 
and  wicked  interest  has  been  unhappily  awakened,  the  full 
power  of  its  riches  : the  largest  bribes  of  gold  as  well  as  of 
praise  are  offered  to  the  artist  who  will  betray  his  art,  until 
at  last,  from  the  sculpture  of  Phidias  and  fresco  of  Luini,  it 
sinks  into  the  cabinet  ivory  and  the  picture  kept  under  lock 
and  key.  Between  these  highest  and  lowest  types,  there  is  a 
vast  mass  of  merely  imitative  and  delicately  sensual  sculpt- 
ure ; veiled  nymphs — chained  slaves — soft  goddesses  seen  by 
rose-light  through  suspended  curtains — drawing-room  por- 
traits and  domesticities,  and  such  like,  in  which  the  interest 
is  either  merely  personal  and  selfish,  or  dramatic  and  sensa- 
tional; in  either  case,  destructive  of  the  power  of  the  public 
to  sympathize  with  the  aims  of  great  architects. 

Gentlemen,  I am  no  Puritan,  and  have  never  praised  or  ad- 
vocated Puritanical  art.  The  two  pictures  which  I would  last 
part  with  out  of  our  National  Gallery,  if  there  were  question 


THE  STUDY  OF  ARCHITECTURE. 


350 


of  parting  with  any,  would  be  Titian’s  Bacchus  and  Corregk 
gio’s  Venus.  But  the  noble  naturalism  of  these  was  the  fruit 
of  ages  of  previous  courage,  continence,  and  religion — it  was 
the  fulness  of  passion  in  the  life  of  a Britomart.  But  the  mid 
age  and  old  age  of  nations  is  not  like  the  mid  age  or  old  age 
of  noble  women.  National  decrepitude  must  be  criminal. 
National  death  can  only  be  by  disease,  and  yet  it  is  almost 
impossible,  out  of  the  history  of  the  art  of  nations,  to  elicit 
the  true  conditions  relating  to  its  decline  in  any  demonstra- 
ble manner.  The  history  of  Italian  art  is  that  of  a struggle 
between  superstition  and  naturalism  on  one  side,  between 
continence  and  sensuality  on  another.  So  far  as  naturalism 
prevailed  over  superstition,  there  is  always  progress  ; so  far 
as  sensuality  over  chastity,  death.  And  the  two  contests  are 
simultaneous.  It  is  impossible  to  distinguish  one  victory 
from  the  other.  Observe,  however,  I say  victory  over  super- 
stition, not  over  religion.  Let  me  carefully  define  the  differ- 
ence. Superstition,  in  all  times  and  among  all  nations,  is  the 
fear  of  a spirit  whose  passions  are  those  of  a man,  whose  acts 
are  the  acts  of  a man  ; who  is  present  in  some  places,  not  in 
others  ; who  makes  some  places  holy,  and  not  others  ; who  is 
kind  to  one  person,  unkind  to  another  ; who  is  pleased  or 
angry  according  to  the  degree  of  attention  you  pay  to  him,  or 
praise  you  refuse  to  him  ; who  is  hostile  generally  to  human 
pleasure,  but  may  be  bribed  by  sacrifice  of  a part  of  that 
pleasure  into  permitting  the  rest.  This,  whatever  form  of 
faith  it  colours,  is  the  essence  of  superstition.  And  religion 
is  the  belief  in  a Spirit  whose  mercies  are  over  all  His  works 
— who  is  kind  even  to  the  unthankful  and  the  evil ; who 
is  everywhere  present,  and  therefore  is  in  no  place  to  be 
sought,  and  in  no  place  to  be  evaded  ; to  whom  all  creat- 
ures, times,  and  things  are  everlastingly  holy,  and  who 
claims — not  tithes  of  wealth,  nor  sevenths  of  days — but  all 
the  wealth  that  we  have,  and  all  the  days  that  we  live, 
and  all  the  beings  that  we  are,  but  who  claims  that  totality 
because  He  delights  only  in  the  delight  of  His  creatures  ; and 
because,  therefore,  the  one  duty  that  they  owe  to  Him,  and 
the  only  service  they  can  render  Him,  is  to  be  happy.  A 


THE  STUDY  OF  ARCHITECTURE. 


351 


Spirit,  therefore,  whose  eternal  benevolence  cannot  be  an« 
gered,  cannot  be  appeased ; whose  laws  are  everlasting  and 
inexorable,  so  that  heaven  and  earth  must  indeed  pass  away 
if  one  jot  of  them  failed  : laws  which  attach  to  every  wrong 
and  error  a measured,  inevitable  penalty  ; to  every  rightness 
and  prudence,  an  assured  reward  ; penalty,  of  which  the  re- 
mittance cannot  be  purchased ; and  reward,  of  which  the 
promise  cannot  be  broken. 

And  thus,  in  the  history  of  art,  we  ought  continually  to  en- 
deavour to  distinguish  (while,  except  in  broadest  lights,  it  is 
impossible  to  distinguish)  the  work  of  religion  from’ that  of 
superstition,  and  the  work  of  reason  from  that  of  infidelity. 
Religion  devotes  the  artist,  hand  and  mind,  to  the  service  of 
the  gods  ; superstition  makes  him  the  slave  of  ecclesiastical 
pride,  or  forbids  his  work  altogether,  in  terror  or  disdain. 
Religion  perfects  the  form  of  the  divine  statue  ; superstition 
distorts  it  into  ghastly  grotesque.  Religion  contemplates  the 
gods  as  the  lords  of  healing  and  life,  surrounds  them  with 
glory  of  affectionate  service,  and  festivity  of  pure  human 
beauty.  Superstition  contemplates  its  idols  as  lords  of  death, 
appeases  them  with  blood,  and  vows  itself  to  them  in  torture 
and  solitude.  Religion  proselytizes  by  love,  superstition  by 
war  ; religion  teaches  by  example,  superstition  by  persecu- 
tion. Religion  gave  granite  shrine  to  the  Egyptian,  golden 
temple  to  the  Jew,  sculptured  corridor  to  the  Greek,  pillared 
aisle  and  frescoed  wall  to  the  Christian.  Superstition  made 
idols  of  the  splendours  by  which  religion  had  spoken  : rever- 
enced pictures  and  stones,  instead  of  truths ; letters  and  laws 
instead  of  acts  ; and  for  ever,  in  various  madness  of  fantastic 
desolation,  kneels  in  the  temple  while  it  crucifies  the  Christ. 

On  the  other  hand,  to  reason  resisting  superstition,  we  owe 
the  entire  compass  of  modern  energies  and  sciences  : the 
healthy  laws  of  life,  and  the  possibilities  of  future  progress. 
But  to  infidelity  resisting  religion  (or  which  is  often  enough 
the  case,  taking  the  mask  of  it),  we  owe  sensuality,  cruelty 
and  war,  insolence  and  avarice,  modern  political  economy,  life 
by  conservation  of  forces,  and  salvation  by  every  man’s  look- 
ing after  his  own  interests  ; and  generally,  whatsoever  of  guilt, 


THE  STUDY  OF  ARCHITECTURE. 


f>*o 

and  folly,  and  death,  there  is  abroad  among  us.  And  of  the 
two,  a thousand-fold  rather  let  us  retain  some  colour  of  super- 
stition, so  that  we  may  keep  also  some  strength  of  religion, 
than  comfort  ourselves  with  colour  of  reason  for  the  desolation 
of  godlessness.  I would  say  to  every  youth  who  entered  our 
schools — be  a Mahometan,  a Diana-worskipper,  a Fire-wor- 
shipper, Boot-worshipper,  if  you  will ; but  at  least  be  so  mud 
a man  as  to  know  what  worship  means.  I had  rather,  a mill 
ion-fold  rather,  see  you  one  of  those  “ quibus  heec  nascuntui 
in  hortis  numina,”  than  one  of  those  quibus  lisec  non  nascuntui 
in  cordibus  lumina  ; and  who  are,  by  everlasting  orphanage, 
divided  from  the  Father  of  Spirits,  who  is  also  the  Father  of 
lights,  from  whom  cometh  every  good  and  perfect  gift. 

“ So  much  of  man,”  I say,  feeling  profoundly  that  all  right 
exercise  of  any  human  gift,  so  descended  from  the  Giver  of 
good,  depends  on  the  primary  formation  of  the  character 
of  true  manliness  in  the  youth, — that  is  to  say,  of  a majestic, 
grave,  and  deliberate  strength.  How  strange  the  words  sound  , 
how  little  does  it  seem  possible  to  conceive  of  majesty,  and 
gravity,  and  deliberation  in  the  daily  track  of  modern  life. 
Yet,  gentlemen,  we  need  not  hope  that  our  work  will  be  ma- 
jestic if  there  is  no  majesty  in  ourselves.  The  word  “ manly  ” 
has  come  to  mean  practically,  among  us,  a schoolboy’s  char  - 
acter, not  a man’s.  We  are,  at  our  best,  thoughtlessly  impetu- 
ous, fond  of  adventure  and  excitement ; curious  in  knowledge 
for  its  novelty,  not  for  its  system  and  results  ; faithful  and  af- 
fectionate to  those  among  whom  we  are  by  chance  cast,  but 
gently  and  calmly  insolent  to  strangers  ; we  are  stupidly  con- 
scientious, and  instinctively  brave,  and  always  ready  to  cast 
away  the  lives  we  take  no  pains  to  make  valuable,  in  causes  of 
which  we  have  never  ascertained  the  justice.  This  is  our  high* 
est  type — notable  peculiarly  among  nations  for  its  gentleness, 
together  with  its  courage  ; but  in  lower  conditions  it  is  es- 
pecially liable  to  degradation  by  its  love  of  jest  and  of  vulgar 
sensation.  It  is  against  this  fatal  tendency  to  vile  play  that 
we  have  chiefly  to  contend.  It  is  the  spirit  of  Milton’s  Comus ; 
bestial  itself,  but  having  power  to  arrest  and  paralyze  all  who 
come  within  its  influence,  even  pure  creatures  sitting  helpless, 


THE  STUDY  OF  ARCHITECTURE. 


353 


mocked  by  it  on  tlieir  marble  thrones.  It  is  incompatible, 
not  only  with  all  greatness  of  character,  but  with  all  true  glad- 
ness of  heart,  and  it  develops  itself  in  nations  in  proportion 
to  their  degradation,  connected  with*  a peculiar  gloom  and  a 
singular  tendency  to  play  with  death,  which  is  a morbid  reac- 
tion from  the  morbid  excess. 

A book  has  lately  been  published  on  the  Mythology  of  the 
Rhine,  with  illustrations  by  Gustave  Dore.  The  Rhine  god 
is  represented  in  the  vignette  title-page  with  a pipe  in  one 
hand  and  a pot  of  beer  in  the  other.  You  cannot  have  a more 
complete  type  of  the  tendency  which  is  chiefly  to  be  dreaded 
in  this  age  than  in  this  conception,  as  opposed  to  any  possi- 
bility of  representation  of  a river-god,  however  playful,  in  the 
mind  of  a Greek  painter.  The  example  is  the  more  notable 
because  Gustave  Dore’s  is  not  a common  mind,  and,  if  born 
in  any  other  epoch,  he  would  probably  have  done  valuable 
(though  never  first-rate)  work  ; but  by  glancing  (it  will  be  im- 
possible for  you  to  do  more  than  glance)  at  his  illustrations 
of  Balzac’s  “Contes  Drolatiques,”  you  will  see  further  how 
this  “ drolatique,”  or  semi-comic  mask,  is,  in  the  truth  of  it, 
the  mask  of  a skull,  and  how  the  tendency  to  burlesque  jest 
is  both  in  France  and  England  only  an  effervescence  from  the 
doaca  maxima  of  the  putrid  instincts  which  fasten  themselves 
on  national  sin,  and  are  in  the  midst  of  the  luxury  of  European 
capitals,  what  Dante  meant  when  he  wrote,  quel  mi  sveylio  col 
puzzo , of  the  body  of  the  Wealth-Siren  ; the  mocking  levity 
<uid  mocking  gloom  being  equally  signs  of  the  death  of  the 
^oul ; just  as,  contrariwise,  a passionate  seriousness  and  pas- 
sionate joyfulness  are  signs  of  its  full  life  in  works  such  os 
those  of  Angelico,  Luini,  Ghiberti,  or  La  Robbia. 

It  is  to  recover  this  stern  seriousness,  this  pure  and  thrill- 
ing joy,  together  with  perpetual  sense  and  spiritual  presence, 
that  all  true  education  of  youth  must  now  be  directed.  This 
seriousness,  this  passion,  this  universal  human  religion,  are 
the  first  principles,  the  true  roots  of  all  art,  as  they  are  of  all 
doing,  of  all  being.  Get  this  vis  viva  first  and  all  great  work 
will  follow.  Lose  it,  and  your  schools  of  art  will  stand  among 
other  living  schools  as  the  frozen  corpses  stand  by  the  wind* 


THE  STUDY  OF  ARCHITECTURE. 


354 

Ing  stair  of  the  St.  Michael’s  Convent  of  Mont  Cenis,  holding 
their  hands  stretched  out  under  their  shrouds,  as  if  beseech- 
ing the  passer-by  to  look  upon  the  wasting  of  their  death. 

And  all  the  higher  branches  of  technical  teaching  are  vain 
without  this  ; nay,  are  in  some  sort  vain  altogether,  for  they 
are  superseded  by  this.  You  may  teach  imitation,  because 
the  meanest  man  can  imitate  ; but  you  can  neither  teach  ideal- 
ism nor  composition,  because  only  a great  man  can  choose, 
conceive,  or  compose  ; and  he  does  all  these  necessarily,  and 
because  of  his  nature.  His  greatness  is  in  his  choice  of  things, 
in  his  analysis  of  them  ; and  his  combining  powers  involve 
the  totality  of  his  knowledge  in  life.  His  methods  of  observa- 
tion and  abstraction  are  essential  habits  of  his  thought,  con- 
ditions of  his  being.  If  he  looks  at  a human  form  he  recog- 
nises the  signs  of  nobility  in  it,  and  loves  them — hates  what- 
ever is  diseased,  frightful,  sinful,  or  designant  of  decay.  All 
ugliness,  and  abortion,  and  fading  away  ; all  signs  of  vice 
and  foulness,  he  turns  away  from,  as  inherently  diabolic  and 
horrible  ; all  signs  of  unconquered  emotion  he  regrets,  as 
weaknesses.  He  looks  only  for  the  calm  purity  of  the  human 
creature,  in  living  conquest  of  its  passions  and  of  fate. 

That  is  idealism  ; but  you  cannot  teach  any  one  else  that 
preference.  Take  a man  who  likes  to  see  and  paint  the  gam- 
bler’s rage  ; the  hedge-ruffian’s  enjoyment ; the  debauched 
soldier’s  strife  ; the  vicious  woman’s  degradation ; — take  a 
man  fed  on  the  dusky  picturesque  of  rags  and  guilt ; talk  to 
him  of  principles  of  beauty  ! make  him  draw  what  you  will, 
how  you  will,  he  will  leave  the  stain  of  himself  on  whatever 
he  touches.  You  had  better  go  lecture  to  a snail,  and  tell  it 
to  leave  no  slime  behind  it.  Try  to  make  a mean  man  com- 
pose ; you  will  find  nothing  in  his  thoughts  consecutive  01 
proportioned — nothing  consistent  in  his  sight — nothing  in  hia 
fancy.  He  cannot  comprehend  two  things  in  relation  at  once 
— how  much  less  twenty  ! How  much  less  all ! Everything 
is  uppermost  with  him  in  its  turn,  and  each  as  large  as  the 
rest ; but  Titian  or  Veronese  compose  as  tranquilly  as  they 
would  speak — inevitably.  The  thing  comes  to  them  so  — 
they  see  it  so — rightly,  and  in  harmony  : they  will  not  talk 


THE  S1UDY  OF  ARCHITECTURE. 


355 


to  you  of  composition,  hardly  even  understanding  how  lower 
people  see  things  otherwise,  but  knowing  that  if  they  do  see 
otherwise,  there  is  for  them  the  end  there,  talk  as  you  will. 

I had  intended,  in  conclusion,  gentlemen,  to  incur  such 
blame  of  presumption  as  might  be  involved  in  offering  some 
hints  for  present  practical  methods  in  architectural  schools, 
but  here  again  I am  checked,  as  I have  been  throughout,  by 
a sense  of  the  uselessness  of  all  minor  means  and  helps,  with- 
out the  establishment  of  a true  and  broad  educational  sys- 
tem. My  wish  would  be  to  see  the  profession  of  the  archi- 
tect united,  not  with  that  of  the  engineer,  but  of  the  sculp- 
tor. I think  there  should  be  a separate  school  and  university 
course  for  engineers,  in  which  the  principal  branches  of  study 
connected  with  that  of  practical  building  should  be  the  phys- 
ical and  exact  sciences,  and  honours  should  be  taken  in 
mathematics  ; but  I think  there  should  be  another  school  and 
university  course  for  the  sculptor  and  architect  in  which  lit- 
erature and  philosophy  should  be  the  associated  branches  of 
study,  and  honours  should  be  taken  in  Uteris  humanioribus, 
and  I think  a young  architect’s  examination  for  his  degree 
(for  mere  pass),  should  be  much  stricter  than  that  of  youths 
intending  to  enter  other  professions.  The  quantity  of 
scholarship  necessary  for  the  efficiency  of  a country  clergy- 
man is  not  great.  So  that  he  be  modest  and  kindly,  the 
main  truths  he  has  to  teach  may  be  learned  better  in  his 
heart  than  in  books,  and  taught  in  very  simple  English.  The 
best  physicians  I have  known  spent  very  little  time  in  their 
libraries  ; and  though  my  lawyer  sometimes  chats  with  me 
over  a Greek  coin,  I think  he  regards  the  time  so  spent  in 
the  light  rather  of  concession  to  my  idleness  than  as  helpful 
to  his  professional  labours. 

But  there  is  no  task  undertaken  by  a true  architect  of 
which  the  honourable  fulfilment  will  not  require  a range  of 
knowledge  and  habitual  feeling  only  attainable  by  advanced 
scholarship. 

Since,  however,  such  expansion  of  system  is,  at  present, 
beyond  hope,  the  best  we  can  do  is  to  render  the  studies 
undertaken  in  our  schools  thoughtful,  reverent,  and  refined. 


356 


THE  STUDY  OF  ARCHITECTURE. 


according  to  our  power.  Especially  it  should  be  our  aim  to 
prevent  the  minds  of  the  students  from  being  distracted  by 
models  of  an  unworthy  or  mixed  character.  A museum  is 
one  thing — a school  another  ; and  I am  persuaded  that  as  the 
efficiency  of  a school  of  literature  depends  on  the  mastering 
a few  good  books,  so  the  efficiency  of  a school  of  art  will 
depend  on  the  understanding  a few  good  models.  And  so 
strongly  do  I feel  this  that  I would,  for  my  owti  part,  at  once 
consent  to  sacrifice  my  personal  predilections  in  art,  and  to 
vote  for  the  exclusion  of  all  Gothic  or  Mediaeval  models  what- 
soever, if  by  this  sacrifice  I could  obtain  also  the  exclusion  of 
Byzantine,  Indian,  Renaissance-French,  and  other  more  or 
less  attractive  but  barbarous  work  ; and  thus  concentrate  the 
mind  of  the  student  wholly  upon  the  study  of  natural  form, 
and  upon  its  treatment  by  the  sculptors  and  metal  workers 
of  Greece,  Ionia,  Sicily,  and  Magna  Graecia,  between  500  and 
350  b.c.,  but  I should  hope  that  exclusiveness  need  not  be 
carried  quite  so  far. 

I think  Donatello,  Mino  of  Fiesole,  the  Robbias,  Ghiberti 
Verrocchio,  and  Michael  Angelo,  should  be  adequately  repre- 
sented in  our  schools — together  with  the  Greeks — and  that  a 
few  carefully  chosen  examples  of  the  floral  sculpture  of  the 
North  in  the  thirteenth  century  should  be  added,  with  espe- 
cial view  to  display  the  treatment  of  naturalistic  ornament  in 
subtle  connection  with  constructive  requirements  ; and  in  the 
course  of  study  pursued  with  reference  to  these  models,  as  o 1 
admitted  perfection,  I should  endeavour  first  to  make  the 
student  thoroughly  acquainted  with  the  natural  forms  and 
characters  of  the  objects  he  had  to  treat,  and  then  to  exercise 
him  in  the  abstraction  of  these  forms,  and  the  suggestion  of 
these  characters,  under  due  sculptural  limitation.  He  should 
first  be  taught  to  draw  largely  and  simply  ; then  he  should 
make  quick  and  firm  sketches  of  flowers,  animals,  drapery, 
and  figures,  from  nature,  in  the  simplest  terms  of  line,  and 
light,  and  shade ; always  being  taught  to  look  at  the  organic 
actions  and  masses,  not  at  the  textures  or  accidental  effects 
of  shade  ; meantime  his  sentiment  respecting  all  these  things 
should  be  cultivated  by  close  and  constant  inquiry  into  their 


THE  STUDY  OF  ARCHITECTURE. 


357 


mythological  significance  and  associated  traditions ; then, 
knowing  the  things  and  creatures  thoroughly,  and  regarding 
them  through  an  atmosphere  of  enchanted  memory,  he 
should  be  shown  how  the  facts  he  has  taken  so  long  to  learn 
are  summed  up  by  a great  sculptor  in  a few  touches  : how 
those  touches  are  invariably  arranged  in  musical  and  decora- 
tive relations  ; how  every  detail  unnecessary  for  his  purpose 
is  refused  ; how  those  necessary  for  his  purpose  are  insisted 
upon,  or  even  exaggerated,  or  represented  by  singular  arti- 
fice, when  literal  representation  is  impossible  ; and  how  all 
this  is  done  under  the  instinct  and  passion  of  an  inner  com- 
manding spirit  which  it  is  indeed  impossible  to  imitate,  but 
possible,  perhaps,  to  share. 

Perhaps ! Pardon  me  that  I speak  despondingly.  For 
my  own  paid,  I feel  the  force  of  mechanism  and  the  fury  of 
avaricious  commerce  to  be  at  present  so  irresistible,  that  I 
have  seceded  from  the  study  not  only  of  architecture,  but 
nearly  of  all  art ; and  have  given  myself,  as  I would  in  a 
besieged  city,  to  seek  the  best  modes  of  getting  bread  and 
water  for  its  multitudes,  there  remaining  no  question,  it 
seems  to  me,  of  other  than  such  grave  business  for  the  time. 
But  there  is,  at  least,  this  ground  for  courage,  if  not  for 
hope  : As  the  evil  spirits  of  avarice  and  luxury  are  directly 
contrary  to  art,  so,  also,  art  is  directly  contrary  to  them, 
and  according  to  its  force  expulsive  of  them  and  medicinal 
against  them  ; so  that  the  establishment  of  such  schools  as  I 
have  ventured  to  describe — whatever  their  immediate  suc- 
cess or  ill-success  in  the  teaching  of  art — would  yet  be  the  di- 
rectest  method  of  resistance  to  those  conditions  of  evil  among 
which  our  youth  are  cast  at  the  most  critical  period  of  their 
lives.  We  may  not  be  able  to  produce  architecture,  but,  at 
the  least,  we  shall  resist  vice.  I do  not  know  if  it  has  been 
observed  that  while  Dante  rightly  connects  architecture,  as 
the  most  permanent  expression  of  the  pride  of  humanity, 
whether  just  or  unjust,  with  the  first  cornice  of  Purgatory,  lie 
indicates  its  noble  function  by  engraving  upon  it,  in  perfect 
sculpture,  the  stories  which  rebuke  the  errors  and  purify  the 
Durposes  of  noblest  souls.  In  the  fulfilment  of  such  function. 


358 


THE  STUDY  OF  ARCHITECTURE. 


literally  and  practically,  here  among  men,  is  the  only  real  use 
or  pride  of  noble  architecture,  and  on  its  acceptance  or  sur- 
render of  that  function  it  depends  whether,  in  future,  the 
cities  of  England  melt  into  a ruin  more  confused  and  ghastly 
than  ever  storm  wasted  or  wolf  inhabited,  or  purge  and  exalt 
themselves  into  true  habitations  of  men,  whose  walls  shall  foj 
Safety.  and  whose  gates  shall  be  Praia©. 


SESAME  AND  LILIES 


THREE  LECTURES 


1.  OF  KINGS’  TREASURIES 

2.  OF  QUEENS’  GARDENS 

3.  OF  THE  MYSTERY  OF  LIFE 


CONTENTS 


PAG  8 

Preface  , . , * * <•  v ; 5 

SESAME  AND  LILIES. 

Preface  . . . , . . . *sr 

LECTURE  I.— SESAME. 

OF  Kings’  Treasuries  ......  31 

LECTURE  II.— LILIES. 

Of  Queens’  Gardens  . . . . » ■;  /t 

LECTURE  III. 

The  Mystery  of  Life  and  its  Arts  . . e jo6 


UNTO  THIS  LAST. 

Preface  141 

ESSAY  I. 

The  Roots  of  Honour  . • • • • 149 

ESSAY  II. 


The  Veins  of  Wealth 


166 


QUI  JUDICATIS  TERRAM 


ESSAY  III, 


FAGB 

179 


ESSAY  IV. 

Ad  Valorem 

. . . . . . 196 

THE  QUEEN  OF  THE  AIR. 


Preface  , 

231 

CHAPTER  I. 

Athena  Chalinitis 

. 235 

CHAPTER  II. 


Athena  Keramitis 

. . . . . . 276 

CPIAPTER  III. 


Athena  Ergane 

3°7 

THE  STORM 

CLOUD  OF  THE  NINETEENTH 

CENTURY 


Preface 

361 

Lecture  I.  • 

• • • • • 365 

Lecture  II.  • 

• » • » • e 393 

INDEX  • • 

c # « t © » 439 

PREFACE 


Being  now  fifty-one  years  old,  and  little  likely  to  change  my 
mind  hereafter  on  any  important  subject  of  thought  (unless 
through  weakness  of  age),  I wish  to  publish  a connected  series 
of  such  parts  of  my  works  as  now  seem  to  me  right,  and  likely 
to  be  of  permanent  use.  In  doing  so  I shall  omit  much,  but 
not  attempt  to  mend  what  I think  worth  reprinting.  A young 
man  necessarily  writes  otherwise  than  an  old  one,  and  it  would 
be  worse  than  wasted  time  to  try  to  recast  the  juvenile  lan- 
guage : nor  is  it  to  be  thought  that  I am  ashamed  even  of  what 
I cancel ; for  great  part  of  my  earlier  work  was  rapidly  written 
for  temporary  purposes,  and  is  now  unnecessary,  though  true, 
even  to  truism.  What  I wrote  about  religion,  was,  on  the 
contrary,  painstaking,  and,  I think,  forcible,  as  compared  with 
most  religious  writing  ; especially  in  its  frankness  and  fear- 
lessness : but  it  was  wholly  mistaken  ; for  I had  been  edu- 
cated in  the  doctrines  of  a narrow  sect,  and  had  read  history 
as  obliquely  as  sectarians  necessarily  must. 

Mingled  among  these  either  unnecessary  or  erroneous  state- 
ments, I find,  indeed,  some  that  might  be  still  of  value  ; but 
these,  in  my  earlier  books,  disfigured  by  affected  language, 
partly  through  the  desire  to  be  thought  a fine  writer,  and 
partly,  as  in  the  second  volume  of  Modern  Painters,  in  the 
notion  of  returning  as  far  as  I could  to  what  I thought  the 
better  style  of  old  English  literature,  especially  to  that  of  my 
then  favourite,  in  prose,  Richard  Hooker. 

For  these  reasons,  though,  as  respects  either  art,  policy,  or 
morality  as  distinct  from  religion,  I not  only  still  hold,  but 
would  even  wish  strongly  to  re-affirm  the  substance  of  what 
l said  in  my  earliest  books,  I shall  reprint  scarcely  anything 


6 


PREFACE. 


in  this  series  out  of  the  first  and  second  volumes  of  Modern 
Painters  ; and  shall  omit  much  of  the  Seven  Lamps  and  Sto'nes 
of  Venice : but  all  my  books  written  within  the  last  fifteen 
years  will  be  republished  without  change,  as  new  editions  of 
them  are  called  for,  with  here  and  there  perhaps  an  additional 
note,  and  having  their  text  divided,  for  convenient  reference, 
into  paragraphs  consecutive  through  each  volume.  I shall 
also  throw  together  the  shorter  fragments  that  bear  on  each 
other,  and  fill  in  with  such  unprinted  lectures  or  studies  as 
seem  to  me  worth  preserving,  so  as  to  keep  the  volumes,  on 
an  average,  composed  of  about  a hundred  leaves  each. 

The  first  book  of  which  a new  edition  is  required  chances 
to  be  Sesame  and  Lilies , from  which  I now  detach  the  old  pref- 
ace, about  the  Alps,  for  use  elsewhere  ; and  to  which  I add  a 
lecture  given  in  Ireland  on  a subject  closely  connected  with 
that  of  the  book  itself.  I am  glad  that  it  should  be  the  first 
of  the  complete  series,  for  many  reasons  ; though  in  now  look- 
ing over  these  two  lectures,  I am  painfully  struck  by  the  waste 
of  good  work  in  them.  They  cost  me  much  thought,  and 
much  strong  emotion  ; but  it  was  foolish  to  suppose  that  I 
could  rouse  my  audiences  in  a little  while  to  any  sympathy 
with  the  temper  into  which  I had  brought  myself  by  years  of 
thinking  over  subjects  full  of  pain  ; while,  if  I missed  my  pur- 
pose at  the  time,  it  was  little  to  be  hoped  I could  attain  it 
afterwards  ; since  phrases  written  for  oral  delivery  become 
ineffective  when  quietly  read.  Yet  I should  only  take  away 
what  good  is  in  them  if  I tried  to  translate  them  into  the  lan- 
guage of  books  ; nor,  indeed,  could  I at  all  have  done  so  at  the 
time  of  their  delivery,  my  thoughts  then  habitually  and  impa- 
tiently putting  themselves  into  forms  fit  only  for  emphatic 
speech ; and  thus  I am  startled,  in  my  review  of  them,  to  find 
that,  though  there  is  much,  (forgive  me  the  impertinence) 
which  seems  to  me  accurately  and  energetically  said,  there  is 
scarcely  anything  put  in  a form  to  be  generally  convincing, 
or  even  easily  intelligible  ; and  I can  well  imagine  a reader 
laying  down  the  book  without  being  at  all  moved  by  it,  still 
less  guided,  to  any  definite  course  of  action. 

I think,  however,  if  I now  say  briefly  and  clearly  what  7 


PREFACE. 


7- 


meant  my  hearers  to  understand,  and  what  I wanted,  and  still 
would  fain  have,  them  to  do,  there  may  afterwards  be  found 
some  better  service  in  the  passionately  written  text. 

The  first  Lecture  says,  or  tries  to  say,  that,  life  being  very 
short,  and  the  quiet  hours  of  it  few,  we  ought  to  waste  none  of 
them  in  reading  valueless  books  ; and  that  valuable  books 
should,  in  a civilized  country,  be  within  the  reach  of  every 
one,  printed  in  excellent  form,  for  a just  price  ; but  not  in  any 
vile,  vulgar,  or,  by  reason  of  smallness  of  type,  physically  in- 
jurious form,  at  a vile  price.  For  wre  none  of  us  need  many 
books,  and  those  which  we  need  ought  to  be  clearly  printed, 
on  the  best  paper,  and  strongly  bound.  And  though  we  are, 
indeed,  now,  a wretched  and  poverty-struck  nation,  and  hardly 
able  to  keep  soul  and  body  together,  still,  as  no  person  in  de- 
cent circumstances  would  put  on  his  table  confessedly  bad 
wine,  or  bad  meat,  without  being  ashamed,  so  he  need  not 
have  on  his  shelves  ill-printed  or  loosely  and  wretchedly- 
stitched  books ; for,  though  few  can  be  rich,  yet  every  man 
who  honestly  exerts  himself  may,  I think,  still  provide,  for 
himself  and  his  family,  good  shoes,  good  gloves,  strong  har- 
ness for  his  cart  or  carriage  horses,  and  stout  leather  binding 
for  his  books.  And  I would  urge  upon  every  young  man,  as 
the  beginning  of  his  due  and  wise  provision  for  his  household, 
to  obtain  as  soon  as  he  can,  by  the  severest  economy,  a re- 
stricted, serviceable,  and  steadily — however  slowly — increasing, 
series  of  books  for  use  through  life  ; making  his  little  library, 
of  all  the  furniture  in  his  room,  the  most  studied  and  decora- 
tive piece ; every  volume  having  its  assigned  place,  like  a little 
statue  in  its  niche,  and  one  of  the  earliest  and  strictest  lessons 
to  the  children  of  the  house  being  how  to  turn  the  pages  of 
their  own  literary  possessions  lightly  and  deliberately,  With  no 
chance  of  tearing  or  dogs’  ears. 

That  is  my  notion  of  the  founding  of  King’s  Treasuries  ; 
and  the  first  Lecture  is  intended  to  show  somewhat  the  use 
and  preciousness  of  their  treasures  : but  the  two  following 
ones  have  wider  scope,  being  written  in  the  hope  of  awaken- 
ing the  youth  of  England,  so  far  as  my  poor  words  might  have 
any  power  with  them,  to  take  some  thought  of  the  purposes 


8 


PREFACE . 


of  the  life  into  which  they  are  entering,  and  the  nature  of  the 
world  they  have  to  conquer. 

These  two  lectures  are  fragmentary  and  ill-arranged,  but 
not,  I think,  diffuse  or  much  compressible.  The  entire  gist 
and  conclusion  of  them,  however,  is  in  the  last  six  paragraphs, 
135  to  the  end,  of  the  third  lecture,  which  I would  beg  the 
reader  to  look  over  not  once  nor  twice  (rather  than  any  other 
part  of  the  book),  for  they  contain  the  best  expression  I have 
yet  been  able  to  put  in  words  of  what,  so  far  as  is  within  my 
power,  I mean  henceforward  both  to  do  myself,  and  to  plead 
with  all  over  whom  I have  any  influence,  to  do  also  according 
to  their  means : the  letters  begun  on  the  first  day  of  this  year, 
to  the  workmen  of  England,  having  the  object  of  originating, 
if  possible,  this  movement  among  them,  in  true  alliance  with 
whatever  trustworthy  element  of  help  they  can  find  in  the 
higher  classes.  After  these  paragraphs,  let  me  ask  you  to 
read,  by  the  fiery  light  of  recent  events,  the  fable  at  p.  116  (§ 
117),  and  then  §§  129 — 131  ; and  observe,  my  statement  re- 
specting the  famine  at  Orissa  is  not  rhetorical,  but  certified  by 
official  documents  as  within  the  truth.  Five  hundred  thou- 
sand persons,  at  least , died  by  starvation  in  our  British  domin- 
ions, wholly  in  consequence  of  carelessness  and  want  of  fore- 
thought. Keep  that  well  in  your  memory ; and  note  it  as  the 
best  possible  illustration  of  modern  political  economy  in  true 
practice,  and  of  the  relations  it  has  accomplished  between 
Supply  and  Demand.  Then  begin  the  second  lecture,  and  all 
will  read  clear  enough,  I think,  to  the  end ; only,  since  that 
second  lecture  was  written,  questions  have  arisen  respecting 
the  education  and  claims  of  women  which  have  greatly 
troubled  simple  minds  and  excited  restless  ones.  I am  some- 
times asked  my  thoughts  on  this  matter,  and  I suppose  that 
some  girl  readers  of  the  second  lecture  may  at  the  end  of  it 
desire  to  be  told  summarily  what  I would  have  them  do  and 
desire  in  the  present  state  of  things.  This,  then,  is  what  I 
would  say  to  any  girl  who  had  confidence  enough  in  me  to 
believe  what  I told  her,  or  do  what  I ask  her. 

First,  be  quite  sure  of  one  thing,  that,  however  much  you 
may  know,  and  whatever  advantages  you  may  possess,  and 


PREFACE. 


9 


however  good  you  may  be,  you  have  not  been  singled  out,  by 
the  God  who  made  you,  from  all  the  other  girls  in  the  world, 
to  be  especially  informed  respecting  His  own  nature  and  char- 
acter. You  have  not  been  born  in  a luminous  point  upon  the 
surface  of  the  globe,  where  a perfect  theology  might  be  ex- 
pounded to  you  from  your  youth  up,  and  where  everything 
you  were  taught  would  be  true,  and  everything  that  was  en- 
forced upon  you,  right.  Of  all  the  insolent,  all  the  foolish 
persuasions  that  by  any  chance  could  enter  and  hold  your 
empty  little  heart,  this  is  the  proudest  and  foolishest, — that 
you  have  been  so  much  the  darling  of  the  Heavens,  and  fa- 
vourite of  the  Fates,  as  to  be  born  in  the  very  nick  of  time, 
and  in  the  punctual  place,  when  and  where  pure  Divine  truth 
had  been  sifted  from  the  errors  of  the  Nations  ; and  that  your 
papa  had  been  providentially  disposed  to  buy  a house  in  the 
convenient  neighbourhood  of  the  steeple  under  which  that 
Immaculate  and  final  verity  would  be  beautifully  proclaimed. 
Do  not  think  it,  child  ; it  is  not  so.  This,  on  the  contrary,  is 
the  fact, — unpleasant  you  may  think  it ; pleasant,  it  seems  to 
me, — that  you,  with  all  your  pretty  dresses,  and  daint}'-  looks, 
and  kindly  thoughts,  and  saintly  aspirations,  are  not  one  whit 
more  thought  of  or  loved  by  the  great  Maker  and  Master  than 
any  poor  little  red,  black,  or  blue  savage,  running  wild  in  the 
pestilent  woods,  or  naked  on  the  hot  sands  of  the  earth  : and 
that,  of  the  two,  you  probably  know  less  about  God  than  she 
does  ; the  only  difference  being  that  she  thinks  little  of  Him 
that  is  right,  and  you,  much  that  is  wrong. 

That,  then,  is  the  first  thing  to  make  sure  of ; — that  you  are 
not  yet  perfectly  well  informed  on  the  most  abstruse  of  all 
possible  subjects,  and  that,  if  you  care  to  behave  with  modesty 
or  propriety,  you  had  better  be  silent  about  it. 

The  second  thing  which  you  may  make  sure  of  is,  that  however 
good  you  may  be,  you  have  faults  ; that  however  dull  you  maj 
be,  you  can  find  out  what  some  of  them  are  ; and  that  how- 
ever slight  they  may  be,  you  had  better  make  some — not  too 
painful,  but  patient — effort  to  get  quit  of  them.  And  so  far 
as  you  have  confidence  in  me  at  all,  trust  me  for  this,  that 
how  many  soever  you  may  find  or  fancy  your  faults  to  bef 


10 


PREFACE. 


there  are  only  two  that  are  of  real  consequence, — Idleness  and 
Cruelty.  Perhaps  you  may  be  proud.  Well,  we  can  get  much 
good  out  of  pride,  if  only  it  be  not  religious.  Perhaps  you 
may  be  vain  : it  is  highly  probable  ; and  very  pleasant  for  the 
people  who  like  to  praise  you.  Perhaps  you  are  a little  en- 
vious : that  is  really  very  shocking ; but  then — so  is  every- 
body else.  Perhaps,  also,  you  are  a little  malicious,  which  I 
am  truly  concerned  to  hear,  but  should  probably  only  the 
more,  if  I knew  you,  enjoy  your  conversation.  But  whatever 
else  you  may  be,  you  must  not  be  useless,  and  you  must  not 
be  cruel.  If  there  is  any  one  point  which,  in  six  thousand 
years  of  thinking  about  right  and  wrong,  wise  and  good  men 
have  agreed  upon,  or  successively  by  experience  discovered, 
it  is  that  God  dislikes  idle  and  cruel  people  more  than  any 
other  ; — that  His  first  order  is,  “ Work  while  you  have  light ; ” 
and  His  second,  “ Be  merciful  while  you  have  mercy.” 

“ Work  while  you  have  light,”  especially  while  you  have  the 
light  of  morning.  There  are  few  things  more  wonderful  to  me 
than  that  old  people  never  tell  young  ones  how  precious  their 
youth  is.  They  sometimes  sentimentally  regret  their  own 
earlier  days ; sometimes  prudently  forget  them  ; often  fool- 
ishly rebuke  the  young,  often  more  foolishly  indulge,  often 
most  foolishly  thwart  and  restrain  ; but  scarcely  ever  warn  or 
watch  them.  Kemember,  then,  that  I,  at  least,  have  warned 
you,  that  the  happiness  of  your  life,  and  its  power,  and  its 
part  and  rank  in  earth  or  in  heaven,  depend  on  the  way  you 
pass  your  days  now.  They  are  not  to  be  sad  days  ; far  from 
that,  the  first  duty  of  young  people  is  to  be  delighted  and 
delightful ; but  they  are  to  be  in  the  deepest  sense  solemn 
days.  There  is  no  solemnity  so  deep,  to  a rightly-thinking 
creature,  as  that  of  dawn.  But  not  only  in  that  beautiful 
sense,  but  in  all  their  character  and  method,  they  are  to  be 
solemn  days.  Take  your  Latin  dictionary,  and  look  out  “ sol- 
leimis,”  and  fix  the  sense  of  the  word  well  in  your  mind,  and 
remember  that  every  day  of  your  early  life  is  ordaining  irrev- 
ocably, for  good  or  evil,  the  custom  and  practice  of  your  soul ; 
ordaining  either  sacred  customs  of  dear  and  lovely  recurrence, 
or  trenching  deeper  and  deeper  the  furrows  for  seed  of  sor 


PREFACE. 


11 


row.  Now,  therefore,  see  that  no  day  passes  in  which  you  do 
not  make  yourself  a somewhat  better  creature  ; and  in  order 
to  do  that,  find  out,  first,  what  you  are  now.  Do  not  think 
vaguely  about  it ; take  pen  and  paper,  and  write  down  as 
accurate  a description  of  yourself  as  you  can,  with  the  date 
to  it.  If  you  dare  not  do  so,  find  out  why  you  dare  not,  and 
try  to  get  strength  of  heart  enough  to  look  yourself  fairly  in 
the  face,  in  mind  as  well  as  body.  I do  not  doubt  but  that 
the  mind  is  a less  pleasant  thing  to  look  at  than  the  face,  and 
for  that  very  reason  it  needs  more  looking  at ; so  always  have 
two  mirrors  on  your  toilet  table,  and  see  that  with  proper 
care  you  dress  body  and  mind  before  them  daily.  After  the 
dressing  is  once  over  for  the  day,  think  no  more  about  it : 
as  your  hair  will  blow  about  your  ears,  so  your  temper  and 
thoughts  will  get  ruffled  with  the  day’s  work,  and  may  need, 
sometimes,  twice  dressing  ; but  I don’t  want  you  to  can’}' 
about  a mental  pocket-comb  ; only  to  be  smooth  braided  al- 
ways hi  the  morning. 

Write  down  then,  frankly,  what  you  are,  or,  at  least,  what 
you  think  }rourself,  not  dwelling  upon  those  inevitable  faults 
which  I have  just  told  you  are  of  little  consequence,  and  which 
the  action  of  a right  life  will  shake  or  smooth  away  ; but  that 
you  may  determine  to  the  best  of  your  intelligence  what  3^011 
are  good  for,  and  can  be  made  into.  You  will  find  that  the 
mere  resolve  not  to  be  useless,  and  the  honest  desire  to  help 
other  people,  will,  in  the  quickest  and  delicatest  ways,  im- 
prove yourself.  Thus,  from  the  beginning,  consider  all  your 
accomplishments  as  means  of  assistance  to  others  ; read  atten- 
tively, in  this  volume,  paragraphs  74,  75,  19,  and  79,  and  you 
will  understand  what  I mean,  with  respect  to  languages  and 
music.  I11  music  especially  you  will  soon  find  what  personal 
benefit  there  is  in  being  serviceable  : it  is  probable  that,  how- 
ever limited  your  powers,  you  have  voice  and  ear  enough  to 
sustain  a note  of  moderate  compass  in  a concerted  piece ; — 
that,  then,  is  the  first  thing  to  make  sure  you  can  do.  Get 
your  voice  disciplined  and  clear,  and  think  only  of  accuracy ; 
never  of  effect  or  expression  : if  you  have  any  soul  worth  ex- 
pressing it  will  show  itself  in  your  singing ; but  most  likely 


12 


PREFACE. 


there  are  very  few  feelings  in  you,  at  present,  needing  any 
particular  expression  ; and  the  one  thing  you  have  to  do  is  to 
make  a clear- voiced  little  instrument  of  yourself,  which  other 
people  can  entirely  depend  upon  for  the  note  wanted.  So,  in 
drawing,  as  soon  as  you  can  set  down  the  right  shape  of  any- 
thing, and  thereby  explain  its  character  to  another  person,  or 
make  the  look  of  it  clear  and  interesting  to  a child,  you  will 
begin  to  enjoy  the  art  vividly  for  its  own  sake,  and  all  your 
habits  of  mind  and  powers  of  memory  will  gain  precision  : but 
if  you  only  try  to  make  showy  drawings  for  praise,  or  pretty 
ones  for  amusement,  your  drawing  will  have  little  of  real  in- 
terest for  you,  and  no  educational  power  whatever. 

Then,  besides  this  more  delicate  work,  resolve  to  do  every 
day  some  that  is  useful  in  the  vulgar  sense.  Learn  first 
thoroughly  the  economy  of  the  kitchen  ; the  good  and  bad 
qualities  of  every  common  article  of  food,  and  the  simplest 
and  best  modes  of  their  preparation  : when  you  have  time, 
go  and  help  in  the  cooking  of  poorer  families,  and  show 
them  how  to  make  as  much  of  everything  as  possible,  and 
how  to  make  little,  nice  ; coaxing  and  tempting  them  into 
tidy  and  pretty  ways,  and  pleading  for  well-folded  table- 
cloths, however  coarse,  and  for  a flower  or  two  out  of  the 
garden  to  strew  on  them.  If  you  manage  to  get  a clean  table- 
cloth, bright  plates  on  it,  and  a good  dish  in  the  middle,  of 
your  own  cooking,  you  may  ask  leave  to  say  a short  grace  ; 
and  let  your  religious  ministries  be  confined  to  that  much  for 
the  present. 

Again,  let  a certain  part  of  your  day  (as  little  as  you  choose, 
but  not  to  be  broken  in  upon)  be  set  apart  for  making  strong 
and  pretty  dresses  for  the  poor.  Learn  the  sound  qualities 
of  all  useful  stuffs,  and  make  everything  of  the  best  you  can 
get,  whatever  its  price.  I have  many  reasons  for  desiring 
you  to  do  this, — too  many  to  be  told  just  now, — trust  me, 
and  be  sure  you  get  everything  as  good  as  can  be  : and  if,  in 
the  villainous  state  of  moderate  trade,  you  cannot  get  it  good 
at  any  price,  buy  its  raw  material,  and  set  some  of  the  poor 
women  about  you  to  spin  and  weave,  till  you  have  got  stuff 
that  can  be  trusted : and  then,  every  day,  make  some  little 


PREFACE. ; 


13 


piece  of  useful  clothing,  sewn  with  your  own  fingers  as 
strongly  as  it  can  be  stitched  ; and  embroider  it  or  otherwise 
beautify  it  moderately  with  fine  needlework,  such  as  a girl 
may  be  proud  of  haying  done.  And  accumulate  these  things 
by  you  until  you  hear  of  some  honest  persons  in  need  of 
clothing,  which  may  often  too  sorrowfully  be ; and,  even 
though  you  should  be  deceived,  and  give  them  to  the  dishorn 
est,  and  hear  of  their  being  at  once  taken  to  the  pawnbroker’s, 
never  mind  that,  for  the  pawnbroker  must  sell  them  to  some 
one  who  has  need  of  them.  That  is  no  business  of  yours ; 
what  concerns  you  is  only  that  when  you  see  a half-naked 
child,  you  should  have  good  and  fresh  clothes  to  give  it,  if 
its  parents  will  let  it  be  taught  to  wear  them.  If  they  will 
not,  consider  how  they  came  to  be  of  such  a mind,  which  it 
will  be  wholesome  for  you  beyond  most  subjects  of  inquiry 
to  ascertain.  And  after  you  have  gone  on  doing  this  a little 
while,  you  will  begin  to  understand  the  meaning  of  at  least 
one  chapter  of  your  Bible,  Proverbs  xxxi.,  without  need  of 
any  laboured  comment,  sermon,  or  meditation. 

In  these,  then  (and  of  course  in  all  minor  wTays  besides, 
that  you  can  discover  in  your  own  household),  you  must  be 
to  the  best  of  your  strength  usefully  employed  during  the 
greater  part  of  the  day,  so  that  you  may  be  able  at  the  end 
of  it  to  say,  as  proudly  as  any  peasant,  that  you  have  not  eaten 
the  bread  of  idleness.  Then,  secondly,  I said,  you  are  not  to 
be  cruel.  Perhaps  you  think  there  is  no  chance  of  your  being 
bo  ; and  indeed  I hope  it  is  not  likely  that  you  should  be  de- 
liberately unkind  to  any  creature  ; but  unless  you  are  delib- 
erately kind  to  every  creature,  you  will  often  be  cruel  to 
many.  Cruel,  partly  through  want  of  imagination  (a  far 
rarer  and  weaker  faculty  in  women  than  men),  and  yet  more, 
at  the  present  day,  through  the  subtle  encouragement  of 
your  selfishness  by  the  religious  doctrine  that  all  which  we 
now  suppose  to  be  evil  will  be  brought  to  a good  end  ; doc- 
trine practically  issuing,  not  in  less  earnest  efforts  that  the 
immediate  unpleasantness  may  be  averted  from  ourselves, 
but  in  our  remaining  satisfied  in  the  contemplation  of  its  ulti* 
mate  objects,  when  it  is  inflicted  on  others. 


14 


PREFACE. 


It  is  not  likely  that  the  more  accurate  methods  of  recent 
mental  education  will  now  long  permit  young  people  to  grow 
up  in  the  persuasion  that,  in  any  danger  or  distress,  they  may 
expect  to  be  themselves  saved  by  the  providence  of  God, 
while  those  around  them  are  lost  by  His  Improvidence : but 
they  may  be  yet  long  restrained  from  rightly  kind  action,  and 
long  accustomed  to  endure  both  their  own  pain  occasionally, 
and  the  pain  of  others  always,  with  an  unwise  patience,  by 
misconception  of  the  eternal  and  incurable  nature  of  real  evil, 
Observe,  therefore,  carefully  in  this  matter  : there  are  degrees 
of  pain,  as  degrees  of  faultfulness,  which  are  altogether  con- 
querable, and  which  seem  to  be  merely  forms  of  wholesome 
trial  or  discipline.  Your  fingers  tingle  when  you  go  out  ou  a 
frosty  morning,  and  are  all  the  warmer  afterwards ; your 
limbs  are  weary  with  wholesome  work,  and  lie  down  in  the 
pleasanter  rest ; you  are  tried  for  a little  while  by  having 
to  wait  for  some  promised  good,  and  it  is  all  the  sweeter 
when  it  comes.  But  you  cannot  cany  the  trial  past  a certain 
point.  Let  the  cold  fasten  on  your  hand  in  an  extreme  de- 
gree, and  your  fingers  will  moulder  from  their  sockets.  Fa 
tigue  yourself,  but  once,  to  utter  exhaustion,  and  to  the  end 
of  life  you  shall  not  recover  the  former  vigour  of  your  frame. 
Let  heart-sickness  pass  beyond  a certain  bitter  point,  and  the 
heart  loses  its  life  forever. 

Now,  the  very  definition  of  evil  is  in  this  irremediableness. 
It  means  sorrow,  or  sin,  which  end  in  death ; and  assuredly, 
as  far  as  we  know,  or  can  conceive,  there  are  many  conditions 
both  of  pain  and  sin  which  cannot  but  so  end.  Of  course  we 
are  ignorant  and  blind  creatures,  and  we  cannot  know  what 
seeds  of  good  may  be  in  present  suffering,  or  present  crime ; 
but  with  what  we  cannot  know,  we  are  not  concerned.  It  is 
conceivable  that  murderers  and  liars  may  in  some  distant 
world  be  exalted  into  a higher  humanity  than  they  could  have 
reached  without  homicide  or  falsehood  ; but  the  contingency 
is  not  one  by  which  our  actions  should  be  guided.  There  isL 
indeed,  a better  hope  that  the  beggar,  who  lies  at  our  gates 
in  misery,  may,  within  gates  of  pearl  be  comforted ; but  the 
Master,  whose  words  are  our  only  authority  for  thinking  so. 


PREFACE. 


15 


never  Himself  inflicted  disease  as  a blessing,  nor  sent  away 
the  hungry  unfed,  or  the  wounded  unhealed. 

Believe  me,  then,  the  only  right  principle  of  action  here,  is 
to  consider  good  and  evil  as  defined  b>  our  natural  sense  of 
both  ; and  to  strive  to  promote  the  one,  and  to  conquer  the 
other,  with  as  hearty  endeavor  as  if  there  were,  indeed,  no 
other  world  than  this.  Above  all,  get  quit  of  the  absurd  idea 
that  Heaven  will  interfere  to  correct  great  errors,  while  allow- 
ing its  laws  to  take  their  course  in  punishing  small  ones.  If 
you  prepare  a dish  of  food  carelessly,  you  do  not  expect  Prov- 
idence to  make  it  palatable  ; neither,  if,  through  years  of  folly, 
you  misguide  your  own  life,  need  you  expect  Divine  interfer- 
ence to  bring  round  everything  at  last  for  the  best.  I tell 
you,  positively,  the  world  is  not  so  constituted : the  conse- 
quences of  great  mistakes  are  just  as  sure  as  those  of  small 
ones,  and  the  happiness  of  your  whole  life,  and  of  all  the  lives 
over  which  you  have  power,  depends  as  literally  on  your  own 
common  sense  and  discretion  as  the  excellence  and  order  of 
the  feast  of  a day. 

Think  carefully  and  bravely  over  these  things,  and  you  will 
find  them  true  : having  found  them  so,  think  also  carefully 
over  your  own  position  in  life.  I assume  that  you  belong  to 
the  middle  or  upper  classes,  and  that  you  would  shrink  from 
descending  into  a lower  sphere.  You  may  fancy  you  would 
not : nay,  if  you  are  very  good,  strong-hearted,  and  romantic, 
perhaps  you  really  would  not ; but  it  is  not  wrong  that  you 
should.  You  have  then,  I suppose,  good  food,  pretty  rooms 
to  live  in,  pretty  dresses  to  wear,  power  of  obtaining  every 
rational  and  wholesome  pleasure  ; you  are,  moreover,  prob- 
ably gentle  and  grateful,  and  in  the  habit  of  every  day  thank- 
ing God  for  these  things.  But  why  do  you  thank  Him  ? Is 
it  because,  in  these  matters,  as  well  as  in  your  religious  knowl- 
edge, you  think  He  has  made  a favourite  of  you  ? Is  the  es- 
sential meaning  of  your  thanksgiving,  “Lord,  I thank  thee 
that  I am  not  as  other  girls  are,  not  in  that  I fast  twice  in  the 
week  while  they  feast,  but  in  that  I feast  seven  times  a week, 
while  they  fast,”  and  are  you  quite  sure  this  is  a pleasing  form 
of  thanksgiving  to  your  Heavenly  Father?  Suppose  you  saw 


16 


PREFACE. 


one  of  your  own  true  earthly  sisters,  Lucy  or  Emily,  cast  out 
of  your  mortal  father's  house,  starving,  helpless,  heartbroken  ; 
and  that  every  morning  when  you  went  into  your  father’s 
room,  you  said  to  him,  “How  good  you  are,  father,  to  give 
me  what  you  don’t  give  Lucy,”  are  you  sure  that,  whatever 
anger  your  parent  might  have  just  cause  for,  against  your 
sister,  he  would  be  pleased  by  that  thanksgiving,  or  flattered 
by  that  praise  ? Nay,  are  you  even  sure  that  you  are  so  much 
the  favourite  : suppose  that,  all  this  while,  he  loves  poor  Lucy 
just  as  well  as  you,  and  is  only  trying  you  through  her  pain, 
and  perhaps  not  angry  with  her  in  anywise,  but  deeply  angry 
with  you,  and  all  the  more  for  your  thanksgivings  ? Would 
it  not  be  well  that  you  should  think,  and  earnestly  too  over 
this  standing  of  yours  : and  all  the  more  if  you  wish  to  be- 
lieve that  text,  which  clergymen  so  much  dislike  preaching 
on,  “ How  hardly  shall  they  that  have  riches  enter  into  the 
Kingdom  of  God  ? ” You  do  not  believe  it  now,  or  you  would 
be  less  complacent  in  your  state  ; and  you  cannot  believe  it 
at  all,  until  you  know  that  the  Kingdom  of  God  means — “ not 
meat  and  drink,  but  justice,  peace,  and  joy  in  the  Holy  Ghost,” 
nor  until  you  know  also  that  such  joy  is  not  by  any  means, 
necessarily,  in  going  to  church,  or  in  singing  hymns ; but 
may  be  joy  in  a dance,  or  joy  in  a jest,  or  joy  in  anything  you 
have  deserved  to  possess,  or  that  you  are  willing  to  give  ; but 
joy  in  nothing  that  separates  you,  as  by  any  strange  favour, 
from  your  fellow-creatures,  that  exalts  you  through  their 
degradation — exempts  you  from  their  toil — or  indulges  you 
in  time  of  their  distress. 

Think,  then,  and  some  day,  I believe,  you  will  feel  also — no 
morbid  passion  of  pity  such  as  would  turn  you  into  a black 
Sister  of  Charity,  but  the  steady  fire  of  perpetual  kindness 
which  will  make  you  a bright  one.  I speak  in  no  disparage- 
ment of  them  ; I know  wTell  how  good  the  Sisters  of  Charity 
are,  and  how  much  we  owe  to  them  ; but  all  these  profes- 
sional pieties  (except  so  far  as  distinction  or  association  may 
be  necessary  for  effectiveness  of  work)  are  in  their  spirit 
wrong,  and  in  practice  merely  plaster  the  sores  of  disease 
that  ought  never  have  been  permitted  to  exist ; encouraging 


PREFACE. 


17 


at  the  same  time  the  herd  of  less  excellent  women  in  frivolity, 
by  leading  them  to  think  that  they  must  either  be  good  up  to 
the  black  standard,  or  cannot  be  good  for  anything.  Wear  a 
costume,  by  all  means,  if  you  like  ; but  let  it  be  a cheerful 
and  becoming  one  ; and  be  in  your  heart  a Sister  of  Charity 
always,  without  either  veiled  or  voluble  declaration  of  it. 

As  I pause,  before  ending  my  preface — thinking  of  one  or 
two  more  points  that  are  difficult  to  write  of — I find  a letter 
in  The  Times , from  a French  lady,  which  says  all  I want 
so  beautifully,  that  1 will  print  it  just  as  it  stands  : 

Sir, — It  is  often  said  that  one  example  is  worth  many  ser- 
mons. Shall  I be  judged  presumptuous  if  I point  out  one, 
which  seems  to  me  so  striking  just  now,  that,  however  pain- 
ful, I cannot  help  dwelling  upon  it  ? 

It  is  the  share,  the  sad  and  large  share,  that  French  society 
and  its  recent  habits  of  luxury,  of  expenses,  of  dress,  of  in- 
dulgence in  every  kind  of  extravagant  dissipation,  has  to  lay 
to  its  own  door  in  its  actual  crisis  of  ruin,  misery,  and  hu- 
miliation. If  our  menageres  can  be  cited  as  an  example  to 
English  housewives,  so,  alas  ! can  other  classes  of  our  society 
be  set  up  as  an  example — not  to  be  followed. 

Bitter  must  be  the  feelings  of  many  a French  woman  whose 
days  of  luxury  and  expensive  habits  are  at  an  end  : and  whose 
bills  of  bygone  splendour  lie  with  a heavy  weight  on  her  con- 
science, if  not  on  her  purse  ! 

With  us  the  evil  has  spread  high  and  low.  Everywhere 
have  the  examples  given  by  the  highest  ladies  in  the  land  been 
followed  but  too  successfully. 

Every  year  did  dress  become  more  extravagant,  entertain- 
ments more  costly,  expenses  of  every  kind  more  considerable. 
Lower  and  lower  became  the  tone  of  society,  its  good  breed- 
ing, its  delicacy.  More  and  more  were  monde  and  demi- 
monde associated  in  newspaper  accounts  of  fashionable  doings, 
in  scandalous  gossip,  on  racecourses,  in  premieres  represents 
"ions,  in  imitation  of  each  other’s  costumes,  mohiliers  and  slang. 

Living  beyond  one’s  means  became  habitual — almost  neo 
essary — for  every  one  to  keep  up  with,  if  not  to  go  beyond, 
every  one  else. 

What  the  result  of  all  this  has  been  we  now  see  in  the 
wreck  of  our  prosperity,  in  the  downfall  of  all  that  seemed 
brightest  and  highest. 


13 


PREPACK 


Deeply  and  fearfully  impressed  by  what  my  own  country 
has  incurred  and  is  suffering,  I cannot  help  feeling  sorrowful 
when  I see  in  England  signs  of  our  besetting  sins  appearing 
also.  Paint  and  chignons,  slang  and  vaudevilles,  knowing 
“Anonymas”  by  name,  and  reading  doubtfully  moral  novels, 
,are  in  themselves  small  offences,  although  not  many  years  ago 
they  would  have  appeared  very  heinous  ones,  yet  they  are  ] 
quick  and  tempting  conveyances  on  a very  dangerous  high- 
road. 

I would  that  all  Englishwomen  knew  how  they  are  looked 
up  to  from  abroad — what  a high  opinion,  what  honour  and 
reverence  we  foreigners  have  for  their  principles,  their  truth- 
fulness, the  fresh  and  pure  innocence  of  their  daughters,  the 
healthy  youthfulness  of  their  lovely  children. 

May  I illustrate  this  by  a short  example  which  happened 
very  near  me  ? During  the  days  of  the  ententes  of  1848,  all 
the  houses  in  Paris  were  being  searched  for  firearms  by  the 
mob.  The  one  I was  living  in  contained  none,  as  the  master 
of  the  house  repeatedly  assured  the  furious  and  incredulous  t 
Republicans.  They  were  going  to  lay  violent  hands  on  him, 
when  his  wife,  an  English  lady,  hearing  the  loud  discussion, 
came  bravely  forward  and  assured  them  that  no  arms  were  i 
concealed.  “ Yous  etes  anglaise,  nous  vous  croyons ; les  i 
anglaises  disent  tou jours  la  verite,”  was  the  immediate  answer, 
and  the  rioters  quietly  left. 

Now,  Sir,  shall  I be  accused  of  unjust  criticism  if,  loving  j 
and  admiring  your  country,  as  these  lines  will  prove,  certain  j 
new  features  strike  me  as  painful  discrepancies  in  English  life  ? 

Far  be  it  from  me  to  preach  the  contempt  of  all  that  can 
make  life  lovable  and  wholesomely  pleasant.  I love  nothing  j 
better  than  to  see  a women  nice,  neat,  elegant,  looking  her  ; 
best  in  the  prettiest  dress  that  her  taste  and  purse  can  afford, 
or  your  bright,  fresh  young  girls  fearlessly  and  perfectly  sit- 
ting their  horses,  or  adorning  their  houses  as  pretty  [sic  ; it  is 
not  quite  grammar,  but  it  is  better  than  if  it  were  ; ] as  care,  i 
trouble,  and  refinement  can  make  them. 

It  is  the  degree  beyond  that  which  to  us  has  proved  so  fatal,  ! 
and  that  I would  our  example  could  warn  you  from,  as  a 
small  repayment  for  your  hospitality  and  friendliness  to  us  in 
our  days  of  trouble. 

May  Englishwomen  accept  this  in  a kindly  spirit  as  a new 
year’s  wish  from 


Dec.  29. 


French  Lady, 


PREFACE. 


19 


That,  then,  is  the  substance  of  what  I would  fain  say  con- 
vincingly, if  it  might  be,  to  my  girl  friends  ; at  all  events, 
with  certainty  in  my  own  mind  that  I was  thus  far  a safe 
guide  to  them. 

For  other  and  older  readers  it  is  needful  I should  write 
a few  words  more,  respecting  what  opportunity  I have  had 
to  judge,  or  right  I have  to  speak,  of  such  things  ; for,  in- 
deed, too  much  of  what  I have  said  about  women  has  been 
said  in  faith  only.  A wise  and  lovely  English  lady  told  me, 
when  Sesame  and  Lilies  first  appeared,  that  she  was  sure  the 
Sesame  would  be  useful,  but  that  in  the  Lilies  I had  been 
writing  of  what  I knew  nothing  about.  Which  was  in  a meas- 
ure too  true,  and  also  that  it  is  more  partial  than  my  writings 
are  usually  ; for  as  Ellesmere  spoke  his  speech  on  the in- 

tervention, not  indeed  otherwise  than  he  felt,  but  yet  altogether 
for  the  sake  of  Gretchen,  so  I wrote  the  Lilies  to  please  one 
girl ; and  were  it  not  for  what  I remember  of  her,  and  of  few 
besides,  should  now  perhaps  recast  some  of  the  sentences  in 
the  Lilies  in  a very  different  tone  : for  as  years  have  gone  by, 
it  has  chanced  to  me,  untowardly  in  some  respects,  fortunately 
in  others  (because  it  enables  me  to  read  history  more  clearly), 
to  see  the  utmost  evil  that  is  in  women,  while  T have  had  but 
to  believe  the  utmost  good.  The  best  women  are  indeed 
necessarily  the  most  difficult  to  know  ; they  are  recognized 
chiefly  in  the  happiness  of  their  husbands  and  the  nobleness 
of  their  children  ; they  are  only  to  be  divined,  not  discerned, 
by  the  stranger ; and,  sometimes,  seem  almost  helpless  except 
in  their  homes ; yet  without  the  help  of  one  of  them,*  to 
whom  this  book  is  dedicated,  the  day  would  probably  have 
come  before  now,  when  I should  have  written  and  thought  no 
more. 

On  the  other  hand,  the  fashion  of  the  time  renders  what- 
ever is  forward,  coarse  or  senseless,  in  feminine  nature,  too 
palpable  to  all  men  : — the  weak  picturesqueness  of  my  earlier 
writings  brought  me  acquainted  with  much  of  their  emptiest 
enthusiasm  ; and  the  chances  of  later  life  gave  me  opportu- 
nities of  watching  women  in  states  of  degradation  and  vis 

* fpiihTi. 


20 


P RE FACE. 


dictiveness  which  opened  to  me  the  gloomiest  secrets  o! 
Greek  and  Syrian  tragedy.  I have  seen  them  betray  their 
household  charities  to  lust,  their  pledged  love  to  devotion  ; I 
have  seen  mothers  dutiful  to  their  children,  as  Medea  ; and 
children  dutiful  to  their  parents,  as  the  daughter  of  Herodias : 
but  my  trust  is  still  unmoved  in  the  preciousness  of  the  nat- 
ures that  are  so  fatal  in  their  error,  and  I leave  the  words  of 
the  Lilies  unchanged  ; believing,  yet,  that  no  man  ever  lived  a 
right  life  who  had  not  been  chastened  by  a woman’s  love, 
strengthened  by  her  courage,  and  guided  by  her  discretion. 

What  I might  myself  have  been,  so  helped,  I rarely  in- 
dulge in  the  idleness  of  thinking  ; but  what  I am,  since  1 
take  on  me  the  function  of  a teacher,  it  is  well  that  the  reader 
should  know,  as  far  as  I can  tell  him. 

Not  an  unjust  person ; not  an  unkind  one ; not  a falso 
one ; a lover  of  order,  labor,  and  peace.  That,  it  seems  to 
me,  is  enough  to  give  me  right  to  say  all  I care  to  say  on 
ethical  subjects  : more,  I could  only  tell  definitely  through 
details  of  autobiography  such  as  none  but  prosperous  and  (in 
the  simple  sense  of  the  word)  faultless,  lives  could  justify  ; — 
and  mine  has  been  neither.  Yet,  if  any  one,  skilled  in  read- 
ing the  torn  manuscripts  of  the  human  soul,  cares  for  more 
intimate  knowledge  of  me,  he  may  have  it  by  knowing  with 
what  persons  in  past  history  I have  most  sympathy. 

I will  name  three. 

In  all  that  is  strongest  and  deepest  in  me, — that  fits  me  for 
my  work,  and  gives  light  or  shadow  to  my  being,  I have  sym- 
pathy with  Guido  Guinicelli. 

\ In  my  constant  natural  temper,  and  thoughts  of  things 
And  of  people,  with  Marmontel. 

In  my  enforced  and  accidental  temper,  and  thoughts  of 
things  and  of  people,  with  Dean  Swift. 

Any  one  who  can  understand  the  natures  of  those  three 
men,  can  understand  mine  ; and  having  said  so  much,  I am 
content  to  leave  both  life  and  work  to  be  remembered  or  for 
gotten,  as  their  uses  may  deserve. 

Denmark  Hill, 

1st  January,  1871, 


PREFACE— FIRST  EDITION. 


A passage  in  the  fifty-fifth  page  of  this  book,  referring  to 
Alpine  travellers,  will  fall  harshly  on  the  reader’s  ear  since  it 
has  been  sorrowfully  enforced  by  the  deaths  on  Mont  Cer- 
vin.  I leave  it,  nevertheless,  as  it  stood,  for  I do  not  now 
write  unadvisedly,  and  think  it  wrong  to  cancel  what  has 
once  been  thoughtfully  said  ; but  it  must  not  so  remain 
without  a few  added  words. 

No  blame  ought  to  attach  to  the  Alpine  tourist  for  incur- 
ring danger.  There  is  usually  sufficient  cause,  and  real  re- 
ward, for  all  difficult  work  ; and  even  were  it  otherwise,,  some 
experience  of  distinct  peril,  and  the  acquirement  of  habits  of 
quick  and  calm  action  in  its  presence,  are  necessary  elements, 
at  some  period  of  life,  in  the  formation  of  manly  character. 
The  blame  of  bribing  guides  into  danger  is  a singular  accu- 
sation, in  behalf  of  a people  who  have  made  mercenary  sol- 
diers of  themselves  for  centuries,  without  any  one’s  thinking 
of  giving  their  fidelity  better  employment : though,  indeed, 
the  piece  of  work  they  did  at  the  gate  of  the  Tuileries,  how- 
ever useless,  was  no  unwise  one  ; and  their  lion  of  flawed 
molasse  at  Lucerne,  worthless  in  point  of  art  though  it  be, 
is  nevertheless  a better  reward  than  much  pay  ; and  a better 
ornament  to  the  old  town  than  the  Schweizer  Hof,  or  flat 
new  quay,  for  the  promenade  of  those  travellers  who  do  not 
take  guides  into  danger.  The  British  public  are  however, 
at  home,  so  innocent  of  ever  buying  their  fellow  creatures’ 
lives,  that  we  may  justly  expect  them  to  be  punctilious 
abroad  ! They  do  not,  perhaps,  often  calculate  how  many 
souls  flit  annually,  choked  in  fire-damp  and  sea-sand,  from 
economically  watched  shafts,  and  economically  manned 


22 


PREFACE, 


ships  ; nor  see  the  fiery  ghosts  writhe  up  out  of  every  scut- 
tleful of  cheap  coals : nor  count  how  many  threads  of 
girlish  life  are  cut  off  and  woven  annually  by  painted 
Fates,  into  breadths  of  ball-dresses  ; or  soaked  away,  like 
rotten  hemp-fibre,  in  the  inlet  of  Cocytus  which  overflows 
the  Grassmarket  where  flesh  is  as  grass.  We  need  not,  it 
seems  to  me,  loudly  blame  any  one  for  paying  a guide  to 
take  a brave  walk  with  him.  Therefore,  gentlemen  of  the 
Alpine  Club,  as  much  danger  as  you  care  to  face,  by  all 
means  ; but,  if  it  please  you,  not  so  much  talk  of  it.  The 
real  ground  of  reprehension  of  Alpine  climbing  is  that,  with 
less  cause,  it  excites  more  vanity  than  any  other  athletic 
skill.  A good  horseman  knows  what  it  has  cost  to  make  him 
one  ; everybody  else  knows  it  too,  and  knows  that  he  is  one  ; 
he  need-  not  ride  at  a fence  merely  to  show  his  seat.  But 
credit  for  practice  in  climbing  can  only  be  claimed  after  suc- 
cess, which,  though  perhaps  accidental  and  unmerited,  must 
yet  be  attained  at  all  risks,  or  the  shame  of  defeat  borne 
with  no  evidence  of  the  difficulties  encountered.  At  this 
particular  period,  also,  the  distinction  obtainable  by  first  con- 
quest of  a peak  is  as  tempting  to  a traveller  as  the  discovery 
of  a new  element  to  a chemist,  or  of  a new  species  to  a natu- 
ralist, Vanity  is  never  so  keenly  excited  as  by  competitions 
which  involve  chance  ; the  course  of  science  is  continually 
arrested,  and  its  nomenclature  fatally  confused,  by  the  eager- 
ness of  even  wise  and  .able  men  to  establish  their  priority  in 
an  unimportant  discovery,  or  obtain  vested  right  to  a syllable 
in  a deformed  word  ; and  many  an  otherwise  sensible  person 
will  risk  his  life  for  the  sake  of  a line  in  future  guide-books, 

to  the  fact  that  “ horn  was  first  ascended  by  Mr.  X.  in 

the  year ” ; — never  reflecting  that  of  all  the  lines  in  the 

page,  the  one  he  has  thus  wrought  for  will  be  precisely  the 
least  interesting  to  the  reader. 

It  is  not  therefore  strange,  however  much  to  be  regretted, 
that  while  no  gentleman  boasts  in  other  cases  of  his  sagacity 
or  his  courage — while  no  good  soldier  talks  of  the  charge  he 
led,  nor  any  good  sailor  of  the  helm  he  held, — every  man 
among  the  Alps  seems  to  lose  his  senses  and  modesty  with 


FEE  FADE. 


23 


the  fall  of  the  barometer,  and  returns  from  his  Nephelo-coc- 
cvgia  brandishing  his  ice-axe  in  everybody’s  face.  Whatever 
the  Alpine  Club  have  done,  or  may  yet  accomplish,  is  a sin- 
cere thirst  for  mountain  knowledge,  and  in  happy  sense  of 
youthful  strength  and  play  of  animal  spirit,  they  have  done, 
and  will  do,  wisely  and  well ; but  whatever  they  are  urged  tc 
by  mere  sting  of  competition  and  itch  of  praise,  they  will 
do,  as  all  vain  things  must  be  done  for  ever,  foolishly  and  ill. 
It  is  a strange  proof  of  that  absence  of  any  real  national  love 
of  science,  of  which  I have  had  occasion  to  speak  in  the  text, 
that  no  entire  survey  of  the  Alps  has  yet  been  made  by  prop- 
erly  qualified  men  ; and  that,  except  of  the  chain  of  Clia- 
mouni,  no  accurate  maps  exist,  nor  any  complete  geological 
section  even  of  that.  But  Mr.  Reilly’s  survey  of  that  central 
group,  and  the  generally  accurate  information  collected  in 
the  guide-book  published  by  the  Club,  are  honorable  results 
of  English  adventure  ; and  it  is  to  be  hoped  that  the  con- 
tinuance of  such  work  will  gradually  put  an  end  to  the  vul- 
gar excitement  which  looked  upon  the  granite  of  the  Alps 
only  as  an  unoccupied  advertisement  wall  for  chalking  names 
upon. 

Respecting  the  means  of  accomplishing  such  work  with 
least  risk,  there  was  a sentence  in  the  article  of  our  leading 
public  journal,  wiiich  deserves,  and  requires  expansion. 

“Their  ” (the  Alpine  Club’s)  “ropes  must  not  break.” 

Certainly  not ! nor  any  one  else’s  ropes,  if  they  may  be 
rendered  unbreakable  by  honesty  of  make  ; seeing  that  more 
lives  hang  by  them  on  moving  than  on  motionless  seas.  The 
records  of  the  last  gale  at  the  Cape  may  teach  us  that  economy 
in  the  manufacture  of  cables  is  not  always  a matter  for  exulta- 
tion ; and,  on  the  whole,  it  might  even  be  well  in  an  honest 
country,  sending  out,  and  up  and  down,  various  lines  east  and 
west,  that  nothing  should  break  ; banks, — words, — nor  dredg- 
ing tackle. 

Granting,  however,  such  praise  and  such  sphere  of  exertion 
as  we  thus  justly  may,  to  the  spirit  of  adventure,  there  is  one 
consequence  of  it,  coming  directly  under  my  own  cognizance, 
of  which  I cannot  but  speak  with  utter  regret,— -the  loaff 


24 


PREFACE. 


namely,  of  all  real  understanding  of  the  character  and  beauty 
of  Switzerland,  by  the  country’s  being  now  regarded  as  half 
watering-place,  half  gymnasium.  It  is  indeed  true  that  under 
the  influence  of  pride  which  gives  poignancy  to  the  sensations 
which  others  cannot  share  with  us  (and  a not  unjustifiable 
zest  to  the  pleasure  which  we  have  worked  for),  an  ordinary 
traveller  will  usually  observe  and  enjoy  more  on  a difficult 
excursion  than  on  an  easy  one  ; and  more  in  objects  to  which 
he  is  unaccustomed  than  in  those  with  which  he  is  familiar. 
He  will  notice  with  extreme  interest  that  snow  is  white  on 
the  top  of  a hill  in  June,  though  he  would  have  attached  little 
importance  to  the  same  peculiarity  in  a wreath  at  the  bottom 
of  a hill  in  January.  He  will  generally  find  more  to  admire 
in  a cloud  under  his  feet,  than  in  one  over  his  head  ; and,  op- 
pressed by  the  monotony  of  a sky  which  is  prevalently  blue, 
will  derive  extraordinary  satisfaction  from  its  approximation 
to  black.  Add  to  such  grounds  of  delight  the  aid  given  to  the 
effect  of  whatever  is  impressive  in  the  scenery  of  the  high  Alps, 
by  the  absence  of  ludicrous  or  degrading  concomitants ; and 
it  ceases  to  be  surprising  that  Alpine  excursionists  should  be 
greatly  pleased,  or  that  they  should  attribute  their  pleasure  to 
some  true  and  increased  apprehension  of  the  nobleness  of 
natural  scenery.*  But  no  impression  can  be  more  false.  The 
real  beauty  of  the  Alps  is  to  be  seen,  and  seen  only,  where  all 
may  see  it,  the  child,  the  cripple,  and  the  man  of  gray  hairs. 
There  is  more  true  loveliness  in  a single  glade  of  pasture 
shadowed  by  pine,  or  gleam  of  rocky  brook,  or  inlet  of  unsul- 
lied lake  among  the  lower  Bernese  and  Savoyard  hills,  than  in 
the  entire  field  of  jagged  gneiss  which  crests  the  central  ridge 
from  the  Shreckhorn  to  the  Yiso.  The  valley  of  Cluse,  through 
which  unhappy  travellers  consent  now  to  be  invoiced,  packed 
in  baskets  like  fish,  so  only  that  they  may  cheaply  reach,  in  the 
feverous  haste  which  has  become  the  law  of  their  being,  the 
glen  of  Cliamouni  whose  every  lovely  foreground  rock  has 
now  been  broken  up  to  build  hotels  for  them,  contains  more 
beauty  in  half  a league  of  it,  than  the  entire  valley  they  have 
devastated,  and  turned  into  a casino,  did  in  its  uninjured 
pride ; and  that  passage  of  the  J ura  by  Olten  (between  Basl$ 


PREFACE. 


25 


nnd  Lucerne),  which  is  by  the  modern  tourist  triumphantly 
effected  through  a tunnel  in  ten  minutes,  between  two  piggish 
trumpet  grunts  proclamatory  of  the  ecstatic  transit,  used  to 
show  from  every  turn  and  sweep  of  its  winding  ascent,  up 
which  one  sauntered,  gathering  wild-flowers,  for  half  a happy 
day,  diviner  aspects  of  the  distant  Alps  than  ever  were 
achieved  by  toil  of  limb,  or  won  by  risk  of  life. 

There  is  indeed  a healthy  enjoyment  both  in  engineers* 
work,  and  in  school-boy’s  play  ; the  making  and  mending  of 
roads  has  its  true  enthusiasms,  and  I have  still  pleasure  enough 
in  mere  scrambling  to  'wonder  not  a little  at  the  supreme 
gravity  "with  which  apes  exercise  their  superior  powers  in  that 
kind,  as  if  profitless  to  them.  But  neither  macadamisation, 
nor  tunnelling,  nor  rope  ladders,  will  ever  enable  one  human 
creature  to  understand  the  pleasure  in  natural  scenery  felt  by- 
Theocritus  or  Virgil ; and  I believe  the  athletic  health  of  our 
schoolboys  might  be  made  perfectly  consistent  with  a spirit  of 
more  courtesy  and  reverence,  both  for  men  and  things,  than 
is  recognisable  in  the  behaviour  of  modern  youth.  Some  year 
or  two  back,  I was  staying  at  the  Montanvert  to  paint  Alpine 
roses,  and  went  every  day  to  watch  the  budding  of  a favorite 
bed,  which  was  rounding  into  faultless  bloom  beneath  a cirque 
of  rock,  high  enough,  as  I hoped,  and  close  enough,  to  guard 
it  from  rude  eyes  and  plucking  hands.  But, 

“ Tra  erto  e piano  era  un  sentiero  gliembo, 

Che  ne  condusse  in  fianco  del  a lacca,’’ 

and  on  the  day  it  reached  the  fulness  of  its  rubied  fire,  I wa? 
standing  near  when  it  was  discovered  by  a forager  on  the 
flanks  of  a travelling  school  of  English  and  German  lads.  He 
shouted  to  his  companions,  and  they  swooped  down  upon  it : 
threw  themselves  into  it,  rolled  over  and  over  in  it,  shrieked, 
hallooed,  and  fought  in  it,  trampled  it  down,  and  tore  it  up 
by  the  roots ; breathless  at  last  with  rapture  of  ravage,  they 
fixed  the  brightest  of  the  remnant  blossoms  of  it  in  their  caps, 
and  went  on  their  way  rejoicing. 

They  left  me  much  to  think  upon  ; partly  respecting  the  es* 


26 


PREFACE. 


sential  power  of  tlie  beauty  which  could  so  excite  them,  and 
partly  respecting  the  character  of  the  youth  which  could  only 
be  excited  to  destroy.  But  the  incident  was  a perfect  ty7pe  oi 
that  irreverence  for  natural  beauty  with  respect  to  which  1 
said  in  the  text,  at  the  plac8  already  indicated,  “ You  make 
railroads  of  the  aisles  of  the  cathedrals  of  the  earth,  and  eat 
off  their  altars.5’  For  indeed  all  true  lovers  of  natural  beauty 
hold  it  in  reverence  so  deep,  that  they  would  as  soon  think  of 
climbing  the  pillars  of  the  choir  Beauvais  for  a gymnastic  ex- 
ercise, as  of  making  a play-ground  of  Alpine  snow  : and  they 
would  not  risk  one  hour  of  their  joy  among  the  hill  meadows 
on  a May  morning,  for  the  fame  or  fortune  of  having  stood  on 
every  pinnacle  of  the  silver  temple,  and  beheld  the  kingdoms 
of  the  world  from  it.  Love  of  excitement  is  so  far  from  being 
love  of  beauty,  that  it  ends  always  in  a joy  in  its  exact  re- 
verse ; joy  in  destruction, — as  of  my  poor  roses, — or  in  actual 
details  of  death  ; until,  in  the  literature  of  the  day,  “ nothing 
is  too  dreadful,  or  too  trivial,  for  the  greed  of  the  public.”  * 
And  in  politics,  apathy,  irreverence,  and  lust  of  luxury  gq 
hand  in  hand,  until  the  best  solemnization  which  can  be  con* 
ceived  for  the  greatest  event  in  modern  European  history,  the 
crowning  of  Florence  capital  of  Italy,  is  the  accursed  and  ill- 
omened  folly  of  casting  down  her  old  avails,  and  surrounding 
her  with  a “boulevard;55  and  this  at  the  very  time  when 
every  stone  of  her  ancient  cities  is  more  precious  to  her  than 
the  gems  of  a Urim  breastplate,  and  when  every  nerve  of  her 
heart  and  brain  should  have  been  strained  to  redeem  her  guilt 
and  fulfil  her  freedom.  It  is  not  by  making  roads  round 
Florence,  but  through  Calabria,  that  she  should  begin  her 
Roman  causeway  work  again  ; and  her  fate  points  her  march, 
not  on  boulevards  by  Arno,  but  waist-deep  in  the  lagoons  at 
Venice.  Not  yet,  indeed,  but  five  years  of  patience  and  dis- 
cipline of  her  youth  would  accomplish  her  power,  and  sweep 
the  martello  towers  from  the  cliffs  of  Verona,  and  the  ramparts 
from  the  marsh  of  Mestre.  But  she  will  not  teach  her  youth 
that  discipline  on  boulevards. 

Strange,  that  while  we  both,  French  and  English,  can  give 

* Pall  Mall  Gazette , August  1.5th,  article  on  the  Forward  murders.. 


PREFACE. 


27 


lessons  in  war,  we  only  corrupt  other  nations  when  they  imi* 
tate  either  our  pleasures  or  our  industries.  We  English,  had 
we  loved  Switzerland  indeed,  should  have  striven  to  elevate, 
but  not  to  disturb,  the  simplicity  of  her  people,  by  teaching 
them  the  sacredness  of  their  fields  and  waters,  the  honour  of 
their  pastoral  and  burgher  life,  and  the  fellowship  in  glory  of 
the  gray  turreted  walls  round  their  ancient  cities,  with  their 
cottages  in  their  fair  groups  by  the  forest  and  lake.  Beauti- 
ful, indeed,  upon  the  mountains,  had  been  the  feet  of  any  who 
had  spoken  peace  to  their  children  ; — who  had  taught  those 
princely  peasants  to  remember  their  lineage,  and  their  league 
with  the  rocks  of  the  field  ; that  so  they  might  keep  their 
mountain  waters  pure,  and  their  mountain  paths  peaceful,  and 
their  traditions  of  domestic  life  holy.  We  have  taught  them 
(incapable  by  circumstances  and  position  of  ever  becoming  a 
great  commercial  nation)  all  the  foulness  of  the  modern  lust 
of  wealth,  without  its  practical  intelligences  ; and  we  have  de- 
veloped exactly  the  weakness  of  their  temperament  by  which 
they  are  liable  to  meanest  ruin.  Of  the  ancient  architecture 
and  most  expressive  'beauty  of  their  country  there  is  now  lit- 
tle vestige  left  ; and  it  is  one  of  the  few  reasons  which  console 
me  for  the  advance  of  life,  that  I am  old  enough  to  remember 
the  time  when  the  sweet  waves  of  the  Reuss  and  Liminat  (now 
foul  with  the  refuse  of  manufacture)  were  as  crystalline  as  the 
heaven  above  them,  when  her  pictured  bridges  and  embattled 
towers  ran  unbroken  round  Lucerne  ; when  the  Rhone  flowed 
in  deep-green,  softly  dividing  currents  round  the  wooded  ram- 
parts of  Geneva  ; and  when  from  the  marble  roof  of  the  west- 
ern vault  of  Milan,  I could  watch  the  Rose  of  Italy  flush  in 
the  first  morning  light,  before  a human  foot  had  sullied  its 
summit,  or  the  reddening  dawn  on  its  rocks  taken  shadow  of 
sadness  from  the  crimson  which  long  ago  stained  the  ripples 
of  Otterbum, 


. 

ini ; i ' ••  : ■ • li  : 


. 


SESAME  AND  LILIES, 


LECTURE  L— SESAME. 

OF  kings’  treasuries. 

“ You  shall  each  have  a cake  of  sesame, — and  ten  pound.” 

— Lucian  : The  Fisherman . 

I believe,  ladies  and  gentlemen,  that  my  first  duty  this  even- 
ing is  to  ask  your  pardon  for  the  ambiguity  of  title  unde* 
which  the  subject  of  lecture  has  been  announced  ; and  for  hav- 
ing endeavoured,  as  you  may  ultimately  think,  to  obtain  your 
audiences  under  false  pretences.  For  indeed  I am  not  going 
to  talk  of  kings,  known  as  regnant,  nor  of  treasuries,  under- 
stood to  contain  wealth  ; but  of  quite  another  order  of  royalty, 
and  material  of  riches,  than  those  usually  acknowledged.  And  1 
had  even  intended  to  ask  your  attention  for  a little  while  on 
trust,  and  (as  sometimes  one  contrives  in  taking  a friend  to 
see  a favourite  piece  of  scenery)  to  hide  what  I wanted  most  to 
show,  with  such  imperfect  cunning  as  I might,  until  we  had 
unexpectedly  reached  the  best  point  of  view  by  winding  paths. 
But  since  my  good  plain-spoken  friend,  Canon  Anson,  has  al- 
ready partly  anticipated  my  reserved  “ trot  for  the  avenue  ” 
in  his  first  advertised  title  of  subject,  “How  and  What  to 
Read  ; ” — and  as  also  I have  heard  it  said,  by  men  practised 
in  public  address,  that  hearers  are  never  so  much  fatigued  aa 
by  the  endeavour  to  follow  a speaker  who  gives  them  no  clue 
to  his  purpose,  I will  take  the  slight  mask  off  at  once,  and 
tell  you  plainly  that  I want  to  speak  to  you  about  books  ; and 
about  the  way  we  read  them,  and  could,  or  should  read  them 
A grave  subject,  you  will  say ; and  a wide  one  1 Yes ; so  wick 


32 


SESAME  AND  LILIES. 


that  I shall  make  no  effort  to  touch  the  compass  of  it.  I will 
try  only  to  bring  before  you  a few  simple  thoughts  about  read- 
ing, which  press  themselves  upon  me  every  day  more  deeply, 
as  I watch  the  course  of  the  public  mind  with  respect  to  oul 
daily  enlarging  means  of  education,  and  the  answeringly  wider 
spreading,  on  the  levels,  of  the  irrigation  of  literature.  It 
happens  that  I have  practically  some  connection  with  schools 
for  different  classes  of  youth  ; and  I receive  many  letters  from 
parents  respecting  the  education  of  their  children.  In  the 
mass  of  these  letters,  I am  always  struck  by  the  precedence 
which  the  idea  of  a “position  in  life  ” takes  above  all  other 
thoughts  in  the  parents’ — more  especially  in  the  mothers’ — 
minds.  “The  education  befitting  such  and  such  a station  in 
life  ” — this  is  the  phrase,  this  the  object,  always.  They  never 
seek,  as  far  as  I can  make  out,  an  education  good  in  itself  ; the 
conception  of  abstract  rightness  in  training  rarely  seems 
reached  by  the  writers.  But  an  education  “ which  shall  keep 
a good  coat  on  my  son’s  back  ; — an  education  which  shall  en- 
able him  to  ring  with  confidence  the  visitors’  bell  at  double- 
belled  doors  ; — education  which  shall  result  ultimately  in  es- 
tablishment of  a double-belled  door  to  his  own  house  ; in  a 
word,  which  shall  lead  to  “ advancement  in  life.”  It  never 
seems  to  occur  to  the  parents  that  there  may  be  an  education 
which,  in  itself,  is  advancement  in  Life  ; — that  any  other  than 
that  may  perhaps  be  advancement  in  Death  ; and  that  this  es- 
sential education  might  be  more  easily  got,  or  given,  than  they 
fancy,  if  they  set  about  it  in  the  right  way  ; while  it  is  for  no 
price,  and  by  no  favour,  to  be  got,  if  they  set  about  it  in  the 
wrong. 

Indeed,  among  the  ideas  most  prevalent  and  effective  in 
the  mind  of  this  busiest  of  countries,  I suppose  the  first — at 
least  that  which  is  confessed  with  the  greatest  frankness,  and 
put  forward  as  the  fittest  stimulus  to  youthful  exertion — is 
this  of  “advancement  in  life.”  My  main  purpose  this  even- 
ing is  to  determine,  with  you,  what  this  idea  practically  in- 
cludes, and  wrhat  it  should  include. 

Practically,  then,  at  present,  “ advancement  in  life  ” means 
becoming  conspicuous  in  life  ; — obtaining  a position  which 


OF  KINGS*  TREASURIES. 


33 


shall  be  acknowledged  by  others  to  be  respectable  or  lion., 
ourable.  We  do  not  understand  by  this  advancement,  in 
general,  the  mere  making  of  money,  but  the  being  known  to 
have  made  it ; not  the  accomplishment  of  any  great  aim,  but 
the  being  seen  to  have  accomplished  it.  In  a word,  we  mean 
the  gratification  of  our  thirst  for  applause.  That  thirst,  if  the 
last  infirmity  of  noble  minds,  is  also  the  first  infirmity  of  weak 
ones  ; and,  on  the  whole,  the  strongest  impulsive  influence  of 
average  humanity  : the  greatest  efforts  of  the  race  have  always 
been  traceable  to  the  love  of  praise,  as  its  greatest  catastro- 
phes to  the  love  of  pleasure. 

I am  not  about  to  attack  or  defend  this  impulse.  I want 
you  only  to  feel  how  it  lies  at  the  root  of  effort  ; especially  of 
all  modern  effort.  It  is  the  gratification  of  vanity  wrhich  is, 
with  us,  the  stimulus  of  toil,  and  balm  of  repose  ; so  closely 
does  it  touch  the  very  springs  of  life,  that  the  wounding  of 
our  vanity  is  always  spoken  of  (and  truly)  as  in  its  measure 
mortal ; we  call  it  “mortification,”  using  the  same  expression 
which  we  should  apply  to  a gangrenous  and  incurable  bodily 
hurt.  And  although  few  of  us  may  be  physicians  enough  to 
recognize  the  various  effect  of  this  passion  upon  health  and 
energy,  I believe  most  honest  men  know  and  would  at  once 
acknowledge,  its  leading  power  with  them  as  a motive.  The 
seaman  does  not  commonly  desire  to  be  made  captain  only 
because  he  knows  he  can  manage  the  ship  better  than  any 
other  sailor  on  board.  He  w7ants  to  be  made  captain  that  he 
may  be  called  captain.  The  clergyman  does  not  usually  wrant 
to  be  made  a bishop  only  because  he  believes  no  other  hand 
can,  as  firmly  as  his,  direct  the  diocese  through  its  difficulties. 
He  wants  to  be  made  bishop  primarily  that  he  may  be  called 
“ My  Lord.”  And  a prince  does  not  usually  desire  to  enlarge, 
or  a subject  to  gain,  a kingdom,  because  he  believes  that  nc 
one  else  can  as  well  serve  the  state  upon  the  throne  ; but, 
briefly,  because  he  wishes  to  be  addressed  as  “ Your  Majesty/' 
by  as  many  lips  as  may  be  brought  to  such  utterance. 

This,  then,  being  the  main  idea  of  advancement  in  life,  the 
force  of  it  applies,  for  all  of  us,  according  to  our  station,  par- 
ticularly to  that  secondary  result  of  such  advancement  which 


34 


SESAME  AND  LILIES. 


we  call  “getting  into  good  society.”  We  want  to  get  into 
good  society,  not  that  we  may  have  it,  but  that  we  may  be 
seen  in  it ; and  our  notion  of  its  goodness  depends  primarily 
on  its  conspicuousness. 

Will  you  pardon  me  if  I pause  for  a moment  to  put  what  1 
fear  you  may  think  an  impertinent  question  ? I never  can  go 
on  with  an  address  unless  I feel,  or  know,  that  my  audience 
are  either  with  me  or  against  me  : (I  do  not  much  care  which, 
in  beginning  ;)  but  I must  know  where  they  are  ; and  I would 
fain  find  out,  at  this  instant,  whether  you  think  I am  putting 
the  motives  of  popular  action  too  low.  I am  resolved  to- 
night, to  state  them  low  enough  to  be  admitted  as  probable  ; 
for  whenever,  in  my  writings  on  Political  Economy,  I assume 
that  a little  honesty,  or  generosity, — or  what  used  to  be  called 
“ virtue  ” — may  be  calculated  upon  as  a human  motive  of  ac- 
tion, people  always  answer  me,  saying,  “You  must  not  calcu- 
late on  that : that  is  not  in  human  nature  : you  must  not 
assume  anything  to  be  common  to  men  but  acquisitiveness 
and  jealousy  ; no  other  feeling  ever  has  influence  on  them,  ex- 
cept accidentally,  and  in  matters  out  of  the  way  of  business.” 
I begin  accordingly  to-night  low  down  in  the  scale  of  mo- 
tives ; but  I must  know  if  you  think  me  right  in  doing  so. 
Therefore,  let  me  ask  those  who  admit  the  love  of  praise  to 
be  usually  the  strongest  motive  in  men’s  minds  in  seeking 
advancement,  and  the  honest  desire  of  doing  any  kind  of 
duty  to  be  an  entirely  secondary  one,  to  hold  up  their  hands. 
(About  a dozen  of  hands  held  up — the  audience  partly  not  being 
sure  the  lecturer  is  serious,  and  partly  shy  of  expressing  opinion.) 
1 am  quite  serious — I really  do  want  to  know  wrhat  you  think  ; 
however,  I can  judge  by  putting  the  reverse  question.  Will 
those  who  think  that  duty  is  generally  the  first,  and  love  of 
praise  the  second  motive,  hold  up  their  hands  ? ( One  hand 

reported  to  have  been  held  up,  behind  the  lecturer.)  Very  good ; 
I see  you  are  with  me,  and  that  you  think  I have  not  begun 
too  near  the  ground.  Now,  without  teasing  you  by  putting 
farther  question,  I venture  to  assume  that  you  will  admit 
duty  as  at  least  a secondary  or  tertiary  motive.  You  think 
that  the  desire  of  doing  something  useful,  or  obtaining  some 


OF  KINGS'  TREASURIES 


35 


teal  good,  is  indeed  an  existent  collateral  idea,  though  a sec* 
ondary  one,  in  most  nlen’s  desire  of  advancement.  You  will 
grant  that  moderately  honest  men  desire  place  and  office,  at 
least  in  some  measure,  for  the  sake  of  their  beneficent  power ; 
and  would  wish  to  associate  rather  with  sensible  and  well-in- 
formed persons  than  with  fools  and  ignorant  persons,  whether 
they  are  seen  in  the  company  of  the  sensible  ones  or  not 
And  finally,  without  being  troubled  by  repetition  of  any  com- 
mon truisms  about  the  preciousness  of  friends,  and  the  in- 
fluence of  companions,  you  will  admit,  doubtless,  that  accord- 
ing to  the  sincerity  of  our  desire  that  our  friends  may  be  true, 
and  our  companions  wise, — and  in  proportion  to  the  earnest- 
ness and  discretion  with  which  we  choose  both,  will  be  the 
general  chances  of  our  happiness  and  usefulness. 

But,  granting  that  we  had  both  the  will  and  the  sense  to 
choose  our  friends  well,  how  few  of  us  have  the  power ! or,  at 
least,  how  limited,  for  most,  is  the  sphere  of  choice ! Nearly 
all  our  associations  are  determined  by  chance  or  necessity  ; 
and  restricted  within  a narrow  circle.  We  cannot  know  whom 
we  would  ; and  those  whom  we  know,  we  cannot  have  at  our 
side  when  we  most  need  them.  All  the  higher  circles  of  hu- 
man intelligence  are,  to  those  beneath,  only  momentarily  and 
partially  open.  We  may,  by  good  fortune,  obtain  a glimpse 
of  a great  poet,  and  hear  the  sound  of  his  voice  ; or  put  a 
question  to  a man  oi  science,  and  be  answered  good-humour- 
edly. We  may  intrude  ten  minutes’  talk  on  a cabinet  minis- 
ter, answered  probably  with  words  worse  than  silence,  being 
deceptive ; or  snatch,  once  or  twice  in  our  lives,  the  privilege 
of  throwing  a bouquet  in  the  path  of  a Princess,  or  arresting 
the  kind  glance  of  a Queen.  And  yet  these  momentary  chances 
we  covet ; and  spend  our  years,  and  passions,  and  powers  in 
pursuit  of  little  more  than  these ; while,  meantime,  there  is 
a society  continually  open  to  us,  of  people  who  will  talk  to 
us  as  long  as  we  like,  whatever  our  rank  or  occupation  ; — talk 
to  us  in  the  best  words  they  can  choose,  and  with  thanks  if 
we  listen  to  them.  And  this  society,  because  it  is  so  numer- 
ous and  so  gentle, — and  can  be  kept  waiting  round  us  all  day 
long,  not  to  grant  audience,  but  to  gain  it ; — kings  and  states* 


36 


SESAME  AND  LILIES. 


men  lingering  patiently  in  those  plainly  furnished  and  narrow 
anterooms,  our  bookcase  shelves, — we  rflake  no  account  of  that 
company, — perhaps  never  listen  to  a word  they  would  say,  all 
day  long ! 

You  may  tell  me,  perhaps,  or  think  within  yourselves,  that 
the  apathy  with  which  we  regard  this  company  of  the  noble, 
who  are  praying  us  to  listen  to  them,  and  the  passion  with 
which  we  pursue  the  company,  probably  of  the  ignoble,  who 
despise  us,  or  who  have  nothing  to  teach  us,  are  grounded  in 
this, — that  We  can  see  the  faces  of  the  living  men,  and  it  is 
themselves,  and  not  their  sayings,  with  which  we  desire  to 
become  familiar.  But  it  is  not  so.  Suppose  you  never  were 
to  see  their  faces  suppose  jrou  could  be  put  behind  a screen 
in  the  statesman’s  cabinet,  or  the  prince’s  chamber,  would  you 
not  be  glad  to  listen  to  their  words,  though  you  were  forbid- 
den to  advance  beyond  the  screen?  And  when  the  screen  is 
only  a little  less,  folded  in  two,  instead  of  four,  and  you  can 
be  hidden  behind  the  cover  of  the  two  boards  that  bind  a 
book,  and  listen,  all  day  long,  not  to  the  casual  talk,  but  to 
the  studied,  determined,  chosen  addresses  of  the  wisest  of 
men  ; — this  station  of  audience,  and  honourable  privy  council, 
you  despise  ! 

But  perhaps  you  will  say  that  it  is  because  the  living  people 
talk  of  things  that  are  passing,  and  are  of  immediate  interest 
to  you,  that  you  desire  to  hear  them.  Nay  ; that  cannot  be  so, 
for  the  living  people  will  themselves  tell  you  about  passing 
matters,  much  better  in  their  writings  than  in  their  careless 
talk.  But  I admit  that  this  motive  does  influence  you,  so  far 
as  you  prefer  those  rapid  and  ephemeral  writings  to  slow  and 
enduring  wiitings- — books,  properly  so  called.  For  all  books 
are  divisible  into  two  classes,  the  books  of  the  hour,  and  the 
books  of  all  time.  Mark  this  distinction — it  is  not  one  of  qual- 
ity only.  It  is  not  merely  the  bad  book  that  does  not  last, 
and  the  good  one  that  does.  It  is  a distinction  of  species. 
There  are  good  books  for  the  hour,  and  good  ones  for  all  time  ; 
bad  books  for  the  hour,  and  bad  ones  for  all  time.  I must 
define  the  two  kinds  before  I go  farther. 

The  good  book  of  the  hour,  then, — I do  not  speak  of  the 


OF  KINGS'  TREASURIES. 


37 


bad  ones — is  simply  the  useful  or  pleasant  talk  of  some  per- 
son whom  you  cannot  otherwise  converse  with,  printed  for 
! you.  Very  useful  often,  telling  you  what  you  need  to  know  ; 

! very  pleasant  often,  as  a sensible  friend’s  present  talk  would 
be.  These  bright  accounts  of  travels ; good-humoured  and 
witty  discussions  of  question  ; lively  or  pathetic  story-telling 

I in  the  form  of  novel ; firm  fact  telling,  by  the  real  agents  con- 
i cerned  in  the  events  of  passing  history  ; — all  these  books  of 
! the  hour,  multiplying  among  us  as  education  becomes  more 
| general,  are  a peculiar  characteristic  and  possession  of  the 
! present  age ; we  ought  to  be  entirely  thankful  for  them,  and 
entirely  ashamed  of  ourselves  if  we  make  no  good  use  of 
them.  But  wTe  make  the  worst  possible  use,  if  we  allow  them 
to  usurp  the  place  of  time  books : for,  strictly  speaking,  they 
j are  not  books  at  all,  but  merely  letters  or  newspapers  in  good 
print.  Our  friend’s  letter  may  be  delightful,  or  necessary, 

! to-day  : whether  worth  keeping  or  not,  is  to  be  considered, 
j!  The  newspaper  may  be  entirely  proper  at  breakfast  time,  but 
| assuredly  it  is  not  reading  for  all  day.  So,  though  bound  up 
in  a volume,  the  long  letter  which  gives  you  so  pleasant  an 
account  of  the  inns,  and  roads,  and  weather  last  year  at  such 
a place,  or  which  tells  you  that  amusing  story,  or  gives  you 
the  real  circumstances  of  such  and  such  events,  however  valu- 
able for  occasional  reference,  may  not  be,  in  the  real  sense  of 
the  word,  a “ book  ” at  all,  nor,  in  the  real  sense,  to  be 
| “ read.”  A book  is  essentially  not  a talked  thing,  but  a writ- 
ten thing  ; and  written,  not  with  the  view  of  mere  communi- 
cation, but  of  permanence.  The  book  of  talk  is  printed  only 
because  its  author  cannot  speak  to  thousands  of  people  at 
once  ; if  he  could,  he  would — the  volume  is  mere  multiplica- 
tion of  his  voice.  You  cannot  talk  to  your  friend  in  India  ; if 
you  could,  you  would  ; you  write  instead  : that  is  mere  con- 
veyance of  voice.  But  a book  is  written,  not  to  multiply  the 
voice  merely,  not  to  carry  it  merely,  but  to  preserve  it.  The 
author  has  something  to  say  which  he  perceives  to  be  true  and 
useful,  or  helpfully  beautiful.  So  far  as  he  knows,  no  one 
has  yet  said  it ; so  far  as  he  knows,  no  one  else  can  say  it. 
He  is  bound  to  say  ii*  clearly  and  melodiously  if  ne  may  j 
3 - - 


38 


SESAME  AND  LILIES. 


clearly,  at  all  events.  In  the  sum  of  his  life  he  finds  this  to 
be  the  thing,  or  group  of  things,  manifest  to  him  this  the 
piece  of  true  knowledge,  or  sight,  which  his  share  of  sun- 
shine and  earth  has  permitted  him  to  seize.  He  would  fain 
set  it  down  for  ever  ; engrave  it  on  rock,  if  he  could  ; say- 
ing, “This  is  the  best  of  me  ; for  the  rest,  I ate,  and  drank, 
and  slept,  loved,  and  hated,  like  another  ; my  life  was  as  the 
vapour,  and  is  not ; but  this  I saw  and  knew  : this,  if  anything 
of  mine,  is  worth  your  memory.”  That  is  his  “ writing ; ” 
it  is,  in  his  small  human  way,  and  with  whatever  degree  of 
true  inspiration  is  in  him,  his  inscription,  or  scripture.  That 
is  a “ Book.” 

Perhaps  you  think  no  books  were  ever  so  written  ? 

But,  again,  I ask  you,  do  you  at  all  believe  in  honesty,  or  at 
all  in  kindness  ? or  do  you  think  there  is  never  any  honesty 
or  benevolence  in  wise  people  ? None  of  us,  I hope,  are  so 
unhappy  as  to  think  that.  Well,  whatever  bit  of  a wise  man’s 
work  is  honestly  and  benevolently  done,  that  bit  is  his  book, 
or  his  piece  of  art.*  It  is  mixed  always  with  evil  fragments 
• — ill-done,  redundant,  affected  work.  But  if  you  read  rightly, 
you  will  easily  discover  the  true  bits,  and  those  are  the  book. 

Now  books  of  this  kind  have  been  written  in  all  ages  by 
their  greatest  men  ; — by  great  leaders,  great  statesmen,  and 
great  thinkers.  These  are  all  at  your  choice  ; and  life  is  short 
You  have  heard  as  much  before  ; — yet  have  you  measured 
and  mapped  out  this  short  life  and  its  possibilities  ? Do  you 
know,  if  you  read  this,  that  you  cannot  read  that — that  what 
you  lose  to-day  you  cannot  gain  to-morrow  ? Will  you  go  and 
gossip  with  your  housemaid,  or  your  stable-boy,  when  you 
may  talk  with  queens  and  kings  ; or  flatter  yourselves  that  it 
is  with  any  worthy  consciousness  of  your  own  claims  to  re- 
spect that  you  jostle  with  the  common  crowd  for  entree  here, 
and  audience  there,  when  all  the  while  this  eternal  court  is 
open  to  you,  with  its  society  wide  as  the  world,  multitudinous 
as  its  days,  the  chosen,  and  the  mighty,  of  every  place  and 
time  ? Into  that  you  may  enter  always  ; in  that  you  may  take 

* Note  this  sentence  carefully,  and  compare  the  Queen  of  the  Air , 5 

106. 


OF  RINGS'  TREASURIES. 


39 


fellowship  and  rank  according  to  your  wish  ; from  that,  once 
entered  into  it,  you  can  never  be  outcast  but  by  your  own 
fault ; by  your  aristocracy  of  companionship  there,  your  own 
inherent  aristocracy  will  be  assuredly  tested,  and  the  motives 
with  which  you  strive  to  take  high  place  in  the  society  of  the 
living,  measured,  as  to  all  the  truth  and  sincerity  that  are  in 
them,  by  the  place  you  desire  to  take  in  this  company  of  the 
Dead. 

“The  place  you  desire/'  and  the  place  you  fit  yourself  for, 
I must  also  say ; because,  observe,  this  court  of  the  past  dif- 
fers from  all  living  aristocracy  in  this  : — it  is  open  to  labour 
and  to  merit,  but  to  nothing  else.  No  wealth  will  bribe,  no 
name  overawe,  no  artifice  deceive,  the  guardian  of  those  Ely- 
sian  gates.  In  the  deep  sense,  no  vile  or  vulgar  person  ever 
enters  there.  At  the  portieres  of  that  silent  Faubourg  St. 
Germain,  there  is  but  brief  question,  “ Do  you  deserve  to 
enter?  ” “ Pass.  Do  you  ask  to  be  the  companion  of  nobles? 
Make  yourself  noble,  and  you  shall  be.  Do  you  long  for  the 
conversation  of  the  wise  ? Learn  to  understand  it,  and  you 
shall  hear  it.  But  on  other  terms  ? — no.  If  you  will  not  rise 
to  us,  we  cannot  stoop  to  you.  The  living  lord  may  assume 
courtesy,  the  living  philosopher  explain  his  thought  to  you 
with  considerable  pain  ; but  here  we  neither  feign  nor  inter- 
pret ; you  must  rise  to  the  level  of  our  thoughts  if  you  would 
be  gladdened  by  them,  and  share  our  feelings,  if  you  would 
recognize  our  presence.” 

This,  then,  is  what  you  have  to  do,  and  I admit  that  it  is 
much.  You  must,  in  a word,  love  these  people,  if  you  are  to 
be  among  them.  No  ambition  is  of  any  use.  They  scorn  your 
ambition.  You  must  love  them,  and  show  your  love  in  these 
two  following  ways. 

I.  First,  by  a true  desire  to  be  taught  by  them,  and  to 
enter  into  their  thoughts.  To  enter  into  theirs,  observe  ; not 
to  find  your  own  expressed  by  them.  If  the  person  who  wrote 
the  book  is  not  wiser  than  you,  you  need  not  read  it ; if  he 
be,  he  will  think  differently  from  you  in  many  respects. 

Very  ready  we  are  to  say  of  a book,  “How  good  this  is— ^ 
that’s  exactly  what  I think ! ” But  the  right  feeling  is,  “How 


40 


SESAME  AND  LILIES. 


strange  that  is ! I never  thought  of  that  before,  and  yet  I sea 
it  is  true  ; or  if  1 do  not  now,  I hope  I shall,  some  day.”  But 
whether  thus  submissively  or  not,  at  least  be  sure  that  you  gs 
to  the  author  to  get  at  his  meaning,  not  to  find  yours.  Judge 
it  afterwards,  if  you  think  yourself  qualified  to  do  so  ; but  as 
certain  it  first.  And  be  sure  also,  if  the  author  is  worth  any. 
thing,  that  you  will  not  get  at  his  meaning  all  at  once  ; — nay, 
that  at  his  whole  meaning  you  will  not  for  a long  time  arrive 
in  any  wise.  Not  that  he  does  not  say  what  he  means,  and  in 
strong  words  too  ; but  he  cannot  say  it  all  ; and  what  is  more 
strange,  will  not,  but  in  a hidden  way  and  in  parables,  in  or- 
der that  he  may  be  sure  you  want  it.  I cannot  quite  see  the 
reason  of  this,  nor  analyse  that  cruel  reticence  in  the  breasts 
of  wise  men  which  makes  them  always  hide  their  deeper 
thought.  They  do  not  give  it  to  you  by  way  of  help,  but  of 
reward,  and  will  make  themselves  sure  that  you  deserve  it  be* 
fore  they  allow  you  to  reach  it.  But  it  is  the  same  with  the 
physical  type  of  wisdom,  gold.  There  seems,  to  you  and  me, 
no  reason  why  the  electric  forces  of  the  earth  should  not  carry 
whatever  there  is  of  gold  within  it  at  once  to  the  mountain 
tops,  so  that  kings  and  people  might  know  that  all  the  gold 
they  could  get  was  there  ; and  without  any  trouble  of  dig- 
ging, or  anxiety,  or  chance,  or  waste  of  time,  cut  it  away,  and 
coin  as  much  as  they  needed.  But  Nature  does  not  manage 
it  so.  She  puts  it  in  little  fissures  in  the  earth,  nobody  knows 
where  : you  may  dig  long  and  find  none  ; you  must  dig  pain- 
fully  to  find  any. 

And  it  is  just  the  same  with  men’s  best  wisdom.  When 
you  come  to  a good  book,  you  must  ask  yourself,  “Am  I in- 
clined to  work  as  an  Australian  miner  would  ? Are  my  pick- 
axes  and  shovels  in  good  order,  and  am  I in  good  trim  myself, 
my  sleeves  well  up  to  the  elbow,  and  my  breath  good,  and 
my  temper?”  And,  keeping  the  figure  a little  longer,  even, 
at  cost  of  tiresomeness,  for  it  is  a thoroughly  useful  one,  the 
metal  you  are  in  search  of  being  the  author’s  mind  or  mean- 
ing, his  words  are  as  the  rock  which  you  have  to  crush  and 
smelt  in  order  to  get  at  it.  And  your  pickaxes  are  your  owu 
care,  wit,  and  learning ; your  smelting-furnace  is  your  own 


OF  KINGS'  TREASURIES. 


41 


thoughtful  soul  Do  not  hope  to  get  at  an}7  good  author’s 
meaning  without  those  tools  and  that  fire  ; often  you  will 
need  sharpest,  finest  chiselling,  and  patientest  fusing,  before 
you  can  gather  one  grain  of  the  metal. 

And,  therefore,  first  of  all,  I tell  you,  earnestly  and  authori- 
tatively, (I  know  I am  right  in  this,)  you  must  get  into  the  habit 
of  looking  intensely  at  words,  and  assuring  yourself  of  their 
meaning,  syllable  by  syllable — nay  letter  by  letter..  For  though 
it  is  only  by  reason  of  the  opposition  of  letters  in  the  function 
of  signs,  to  sounds  in  functions  of  signs,  that  the  study  of  books 
is  called  “literature,”  and  that  a man  versed  in  it  is  called,  by 
the  consent  of  nations,  a man  of  letters  instead  of  a man  of 
books,  or  of  words,  you  may  yet  connect  with  that  accidental 
nomenclature  this  real  principle  ; — that  you  might  read  all  the 
books  in  the  British  Museum  (if  you  could  live  long  enough), 
and  remain  an  utterly  “illiterate,”  uneducated  person ; but  that 
if  you  read  ten  pages  of  a good  book,  letter  by  letter, — that 
is  to  say,  with  real  accuracy, — you  are  for  evermore  in  some 
measure  an  educated  person.  The  entire  difference  between 
education  and  non-education  (as  regards  the  merely  intellect- 
ual part  of  it),  consists  in  this  accuracy.  A well-educated 
gentleman  may  not  know  many  languages, — may  not  be  able 
to  speak  any  but  his  own, — may  have  read  very  few  books. 
But  whatever  language  he  knows,  he  knows  precisely  ; what- 
ever word  he  pronounces  he  pronounces  rightly ; above  all, 
he  is  learned  in  the  peerage  of  words  ; knows  the  words  of 
true  descent  and  ancient  blood  at  a glance,  from  words  of 
modern  canaille  ; remembers  all  their  ancestry — their  inter- 
marriages, distantest  relationships,  and  the  extent  to  which 
they  were  admitted,  and  offices  they  held,  among  the  national 
noblesse  of  words  at  any  time,  and  in  any  country.  But  an 
uneducated  person  may  know  by  memory  any  number  of 
languages,  and  talk  them  all,  and  yet  truly  know  not  a word 
of  any, — not  a word  even  of  his  own.  An  ordinarily  clever 
and  sensible  seaman  will  be  able  to  make  his  way  ashore  at 
most  ports  ; yet  he  has  only  to  speak  a sentence  of  any  lan- 
guage to  be  known  for  an  illiterate  person  : so  also  the  accent, 
r*r  turn  of  expression  of  a single  sentence  will  at  once  mark  a 


42 


SESAME  AND  LILIES. 


scholar.  And  this  is  so  strongly  felt,  so  conclusively  admitted 
by  educated  persons,  that  a false  accent  or  a mistaken  syllable 
is  enough,  in  the  parliament  of  any  civilized  nation,  to  assign 
to  a man  a certain  degree  of  inferior  standing  for  ever.  And 
this  is  right ; but  it  is  a pity  that  the  accuracy  insisted  on  is 
not  greater,  and  required  to  a serious  purpose.  It  is  right 
that  a false  Latin  quantity  should  excite  a smile  in  the  House 
of  Commons  ; but  it  is  wrong  that  a false  English  meaning 
should  not  excite  a frown  there.  Let  the  accent  of  words 
be  watched,  by  all  means,  but  let  their  meaning  be  watched 
more  closely  still,  and  fewer  will  do  the  work.  A few 
words  well  chosen  and  well  distinguished,  will  do  work  that 
a thousand  cannot,  when  every  one  is  acting,  equivocally, 
in  the  function  of  another.  Yes  ; and  words,  if  they  are  not 
watched,  will  do  deadly  work  sometimes.  There  are  masked 
words  droning  and  skulking  about  us  in  Europe  just  now,— 
(there  never  were  so  many,  owing  to  the  spread  of  a shallow, 
blotching,  blundering,  infectious  “ information,”  or  rather 
deformation,  everywhere,  and  to  the  teaching  of  catechisms 
and  phrases  at  schools  instead  of  human  meanings) — there 
are  masked  words  abroad,  I say,  which  nobody  understands, 
but  which  everybody  uses,  and  most  people  will  also  fight  for, 
live  for,  or  even  die  for,  fancying  the}'  mean  this,  or  that,  or 
the  other,  of  things  dear  to  them  : for  such  words  wear  cha- 
mseleon  cloaks — “ groundlion  ” cloaks,  of  the  colour  of  the 
ground  of  any  man’s  fancy : on  that  ground  they  lie  in  wait, 
and  rend  him  with  a spring  from  it  There  were  never  crea- 
tures of  prey  so  mischievous,  never  diplomatists  so  cunning, 
never  poisoners  so  deadly,  as  these  masked  words ; they  are 
the  unjust  stewards  of  all  men’s  ideas  : whatever  fancy  or 
favourite  instinct  a man  most  cherishes,  he  gives  to  his  favour- 
ite masked  word  to  take  care  of  for  him  ; the  word  at  last 
comes  to  have  an  infinite  power  over  him, — you  cannot  get  at 
him  but  by  its  ministry.  And  in  languages  so  mongrel  in 
breed  as  the  English,  there  is  a fatal  power  of  equivocation 
put  into  men’s  hands,  almost  whether  they  will  or  no,  in  being 
able  to  use  Greek  or  Latin-  forms  for  a word  when  they  want 
it  to  be  respectable,  and  Saxon  or  otherwise  common  forms 


OF  KINGS'  TREASURIES. 


43 


when  they  want  to  discredit  it.  What  a singular  and  salutary 
effect,  for  instance,  would  be  produced  on  the  minds  of  peo- 
ple who  are  in  the  habit  of  taking  the  Form  of  the  words 
they  live  by,  for  the  Power  of  which  those  words  tell  them,  if 
we  always  either  retained,  or  refused,  the  Greek  form  “bib- 
ios,” or  “biblion,”as  the  right  expression  for  “book” — in- 
stead of  employing  it  only  in  the  one  instance  in  which  we 
wish  to  give  dignity  to  the  idea,  and  translating  it  everywhere 
else.  How  wholesome  it  would  be  for  the  many  simple  per- 
sons who  worship  the  Letter  of  God’s  Word  instead  of  its 
Spirit,  (just  as  other  idolaters  worship  His  picture  instead  of 
His  presence,)  if,  in  such  places  (for  instance)  as  Acts  xix.  19 
we  retained  the  Greek  expression,  instead  of  translating  it, 
and  they  had  to  read — “Many  of  them  also  which  used  curi- 
ous arts,  brought  their  Bibles  together,  and  burnt  them  be- 
fore all  men  ; and  they  counted  the  price  of  them,  and  found 
it  fifty  thousand  pieces  of  silver!  ” Or  if,  on  the  other  hand, 
we  translated  instead  of  retaining  it,  and  always  spoke  of 
“The  Holy  Book,”  instead  of  “Holy  Bible,”  it  might  come 
into  more  heads  than  it  does  at  present  that  the  Word  of 
God,  by  which  the  heavens  were,  of  old,  and  by  which  they 
are  now  kept  in  store,*  cannot  be  made  a present  of  to  any- 
body in  morocco  binding  ; nor  sown  on  any  wayside  by  help 
either  of  steam  plough  or  steam  press ; but  is  nevertheless 
being  offered  to  us  daily,  and  by  us  with  contumely  refused  ; 
and  sown  in  us  daily,  and  by  us  as  instantly  as  may  be, 
choked. 

So,  again,  consider  what  effect  has  been  produced  on  the 
English  vulgar  mind  by  the  use  of  the  sonorous  Latin  form 
“damno,”  in  translating  the  Greek  /caraKpiVw,  when  people 
charitably  wish  to  make  it  forcible  ; and  the  substitution  of 
the  temperate  “condemn”  for  it,  when  they  choose  to  keep 
it  gentle.  And  what  notable  sermons  have  been  preached  by 
illiterate  clergymen  on — “ He  that  believeth  not  shall  be 
damned  ; ” though  they  would  shrink  with  horror  from  trans- 
lating Heb.  xi.  7,  “ The  saving  of  his  house,  by  which  ha 
damned  the  world  or  John  viii.  12,  “ Y/oman,  hath  no  max?. 

*2  Peter  iii.  5-7. 


u 


SESAME  AND  LILIES. 


lamned  thee  ? She  saith,  No  man,  Lord.  Jesus  answered 
her,  Neither  do  I damn  thee  : go  and  sin  no  more.”  And 
divisions  in  the  mind  of  Europe,  which  have  cost  seas  of  blood, 
and  in  the  defence  of  which  the  noblest  souls  of  men  have 
been  cast  away  in  frantic  desolation,  countless  as  forest  leaves 
- — though,  in  the  heart  of  them,  founded  on  deeper  causes— 
have  nevertheless  been  rendered  practicably  possible,  namely, 
by  the  European  adoption  of  the  Greek  word  for  a public 
meeting,  to  give  peculiar  respectability  to  sucli  meetings, 
when  held  for  religious  purposes  ; and  other  collateral  equiv- 
ocations,  such  as  the  vulgar  English  one  of  using  the  word 
“priest”  as  a contraction  for  “presbyter.” 

Now,  in  order  to  deal  with  words  rightly,  this  is  the  habit 
you  must  form.  Nearly  every  word  in  your  language  has 
been  first  a word  of  some  other  language — of  Saxon,  German, 
French,  Latin,  or  Greek  (not  to  speak  of  eastern  and  primitive 
dialects).  And  many  words  have  been  all  these  ; — that  is  to 
say,  have  been  Greek  first,  Latin  next,  French  or  German 
next,  and  English  last : undergoing  a certain  change  of  sense 
and  use  on  the  lips  of  each  nation  ; but  retaining  a deep  vital 
meaning  which  all  good  scholars  feel  in  employing  them, 
even  at  this  day.  If  you  do  not  know  the  Greek  alphabet, 
learn  it ; young  or  old — girl  or  boy — whoever  you  may  be,  if 
you  think  of  reading  seriously  (which,  of  course,  implies  that 
you  have  some  leisure  at  command),  learn  your  Greek  alphabet ; 
then  get  good  dictionaries  of  all  these  languages,  and  when- 
ever you  are  in  doubt  about  a word,  hunt  it  down  patiently. 
Read  Max  Muller’s  lectures  thoroughly,  to  begin  with  ; and, 
after  that,  never  let  a word  escape  you  that  looks  suspicious. 
It  is  severe  work  ; but  you  will  find  it,  even  at  first,  interests 
ing,  and  at  last,  endlessly  amusing.  And  the  general  gain  to 
your  character,  in  power  and  precision,  will  be  quite  incal- 
culable. 

Mind,  this  does  not  imply  knowing,  or  trying  to  know, 
Greek,  or  Latin,  or  French.  It  takes  a whole  life  to  learn  any 
language  perfectly.  But  you  can  easily  ascertain  the  mean- 
ings through  which  the  English  word  has  passed  ; and  those 
Which  in  a good  writer’s  work  it  must  still  bear. 


OF  KINGS'  TREASURIES. 


45 


And  now,  merely  for  example’s  sake,  I will,  with  your  per- 
mission, read  a few  lines  of  a true  book  with  you,  carefully ; 
and  see  what  will  come  out  of  them.  I will  take  a book  per- 
fectly known  to  you  all ; No  English  words  are  more  familiar 
to  us,  yet  nothing  perhaps  has  been  less  read  with  sincerity 
I will  take  these  few  following  lines  of  Lycidas  : 

11  Last  came,  and  last  did  go, 

The  pilot  of  the  Galilean  lake  ; 

Two  massy  keys  he  bore  of  metals  twain, 

(The  golden  opes,  the  iron  shuts  amain), 

He  shook  his  mitred  locks,  and  stern  bespake, 

How  well  could  I have  spar’d  for  thee,  young  swain, 

Enow  of  such  as  for  their  bellies’  sake 
Creep  and  intrude,  and  climb  into  the  fold! 

Of  other  care  they  little  reckoning  make, 

Than  how  to  scramble  at  the  shearers'  feast, 

And  shove  away  the  worthy  bidden  guest  ; 

Blind  mouths  ! that  scarce  themselves  know  how  to  hold 
A sheep-liook,  or  have  learn’tl  aught  else,  the  least 
That  to  the  faithful  herdsman’s  art  belongs! 

What  recks  it  them  ? What  need  they  ? They  are  sped  ; 

And  when  they  list,  their  lean  and  flashy  songs 
Grate  on  their  scrannel  pipes  of  wretched  straw  ; 

The  hungry  sheep  look  up,  and  are  net  fed, 

But,  swoln  with  wind,  and  the  rank  mist  they  draw, 

Rot  inwardly,  and  foul  contagion  spread  ; 

Besides  what  the  grim  wolf  with  privy  paw 
Daily  devours  apace,  and  nothing  said.” 

Let  us  think  over  this  passage,  and  examine  its  words. 

First,  is  it  not  singular  to  find  Milton  assigning  to  St.  Peter, 
not  only  his  full  episcopal  function,  but  the  very  types  of  it 
which  Protestants  usually  refuse  most  passionately?  His 
“ mitred  ” locks ! Milton  was  no  Bishop-lover ; how  comes 
St.  Peter  to  be  “ mitred  ? ” “ Two  massy  keys  he  bore.”  Is 

this,  then,  the  power  of  the  keys  claimed  by  the  Bishops  of 
Home,  and  is  it  acknowledged  here  by  Milton  only  in  a poeti- 
cal licence,  for  the  sake  of  its  picturesqueness,  that  he  rnny 
get  the  gleam  of  the  golden  keys  to  help  his  effect  ? Do  not 
think  it.  Great  men  do  not  play  stage  tricks  with  doctrines 
of  life  and  death  : only  little  men  do  that.  Milton  means  what 


46 


SESAME  AND  LILIES. 


lie  says  ; and  means  it  with  his  might  too — is  going  to  put  tha 
whole  strength  of  his  spirit  presently  into  the  saying  of  it 
For  though  not  a lover  of  false  bishops,  he  was  a lover  of  true 
ones ; and  the  Lake-pilot  is  here,  in  his  thoughts,  the  type 
and  head  of  true  episcopal  power.  For  Milton  reads  that 
text,  “I  will  give  unto  thee  the  keys  of  the  kingdom  of 
Heaven  ” quite  honestly.  Puritan  though  he  be,  he  would  not 
blot  it  out  of  the  book  because  there  have  been  bad  bishops  ; 
nay,  in  order  to  understand  him,  we  must  understand  that 
verse  first ; it  will  not  do  to  eye  it  askance,  or  whisper  it  under 
our  breath,  as  if  it  were  a weapon  of  an  adverse  sect.  It  is  a 
solemn,  universal  assertion,  deeply  to  be  kept  in  mind  by  all 
sects.  But  perhaps  we  shall  be  better  able  to  reason  on  it  if 
we  go  on  a little  farther,  and  come  back  to  it.  For  clearly, 
this  marked  insistance  on  the  power  of  the  true  episcopate  is 
to  make  us  feel  more  weightily  what  is  to  be  charged  against 
the  false  claimants  of  episcopate  ; or  generally,  against  false 
claimants  of  power  and  rank  in  the  body  of  the  clergy  ; they 
vrho,  “for  their  bellies’  sake,  creep,  and  intrude,  and  climb 
into  the  fold.” 

Do  not  think  Milton  uses  those  three  words  to  fill  up  his 
verse,  as  a loose  writer  would.  He  needs  all  the  three  ; spe- 
cially those  three,  and  no  more  than  those — “creep,”  and 
“intrude,”  and  “climb;”  no  other  words  would  or  could 
serve  the  turn,  and  no  more  could  be  added.  For  they  ex- 
haustively comprehend  the  three  classes,  correspondent  to  the 
three  characters,  of  men  who  dishonestly  seek  ecclesiastical 
power.  First,  those  who  “ creep  ” into  the  fold ; who  do  not 
care  for  office,  nor  name,  but  for  secret  influence,  and  do  all 
things  occultly  and  cunningly,  consenting  to  any  servility  of 
office  or  conduct,  so  only  that  they  may  intimately  discern, 
and  unawares  direct,  the  minds  of  men.  Then  those  who 
“intrude”  (thrust,  that  is)  themselves  into  the  fold,  who  by 
natural  insolence  of  heart,  and  stout  eloquence  of  tongue,  and 
fearlessly  perseverant  self-assertion,  obtain  hearing  and  author- 
ity with  the  common  crowd.  Lastly,  those  who  “climb,”  who 
by  labor  and  learning,  both  stout  and  sound,  but  selfishly  ex- 
erted in  the  cause  of  their  own  ambition,  gain  high  dignities 


OF  KINGS1  TREASURIES. 


47 


&nd  authorities,  and  become  “lord^  over  the  heritage,”  though 
not  “ensamples  to  the  flock.” 

Now  go  on  : — 

“ Of  other  care  they  little  reckoning  make, 

Than  how  to  scramble  at  the  shearers’  feast. 

Blind  mouths — ” 

I pause  again,  for  this  is  a strange  expression  ; a broken 
metaphor,  one  might  think,  careless  and  unseholarly. 

Not  so : its  very  audacity  and  pithiness  are  intended  to 
make  us  look  close  at  the  phrase  and  remember  it.  Those 
two  monosyllables  express  the  precisely  accurate  contraries  o! 
right  character,  in  the  two  great  offices  of  the  Church-— those 
of  bishop  and  pastor. 

A Bishop  means  a person  who  sees. 

A Pastor  means  one  who  feeds. 

The  most  unbishoply  character  a man  can  have  is  therefore 
to  be  Blind. 

The  most  unpastoral  is,  instead  of  feeding,  to  want  to  be 
fed, — to  be  a Mouth. 

Take  the  two  reverses  together,  and  you  have  “ blind 
mouths.”  We  may  advisably  follow  out  this  idea  a little. 
Nearly  all  the  evils  in  the  Church  have  arisen  from  bishops 
desiring  power  more  than  light.  They  want  authority,  not 
outlook.  Whereas  their  real  office  is  not  to  rule  ; though  it 
may  be  vigorously  to  exhort  and  rebuke ; it  is  the  king’s 
office  to  rule  ; the  bishop’s  office  is  to  oversee  the  flock ; to 
number  it,  sheep  by  sheep  ; to  be  ready  always  to  give  full 
account  of  it.  Now  it  is  clear  he  cannot  give  account  of  the 
souls,  if  he  has  not  so  much  as  numbered  the  bodies  of  his 
flock.  The  first  thing,  therefore,  that  a bishop  has  to  do  is  at 
least  to  put  himself  in  a position  in  wffiich,  at  any  moment,  he 
can  obtain  the  history  from  childhood  of  every  living  soul  in 
his  diocese,  and  of  its  present  state.  Down  in  that  back 
street,  Bill,  and  Nancy,  knocking  each  other’s  teeth  out ! — 
Does  the  bishop  know  all  about  it?  Has  he  his  eye  upon 
them  ? Has  he  had  his  eye  upon  them  ? Can  he  circum- 
stantially explain  to  us  how  Bill  got  into  the  habit  of  beating 


48 


SESAME  AND  LILIES. 


Nancy  about  tbe  head?  If  he  cannot,  he  is  no  bishop^ 
though  he  had  a mitre  as  high  as  Salisbury  steeple  ; he  is  no 
bishop, — he  lias  sought  to  be  at  the  helm  instead  of  the  mast- 
head; he  has  no  sight  of  things.  “Nay,”  you  say,  it  is  not 
his  duty  to  look  after  Bill  in  the  back  street.  What!  the 
fat  sheep  that  have  full  fleeces — you  think  it  is  only  those  he 
should  look  after,  while  (go  back  to  your  Milton)  “ the  hungry 
sheep  look  up,  and  are  not  fed,  besides  what  the  grim  wolf, 
with  privy  paw”  (bishops  knowing  nothing  about  it)  “daily 
devours  apace,  and  nothing  said  ? ” 

“ But  that’s  not  our  idea  of  a bishop.”*  Perhaps  not ; but 
it  was  St.  Paul’s  ; and  it  was  Milton’s.  They  may  be  right,  or 
we  may  be  ; but  we  must  not  think  we  are  reading  either  one 
or  the  other  by  putting  our  meaning  into  their  words. 

I go  on. 

“ But,  swollen  with  wind,  and  the  rank  mist  they  draw.” 

This  is  to  meet  the  vulgar  answer  that  “ if  the  poor  are  not 
looked  after  in  their  bodies,  they  are  in  their  souls ; they  have 
spiritual  food.” 

And  Milton  says,  “ They  have  no  such  thing  as  spiritual 
food  ; they  are  only  swollen  with  wind.”  At  first  you  may 
think  that  is  a coarse  type,  and  an  obscure  one.  But  again, 
it  is  a quite  literally  accurate  one.  Take  up  your  Latin  and 
Greek  dictionaries,  and  find  out  the  meaning  of  “ Spirit.”  It 
is  only  a contraction  of  the  Latin  word  “ breath,”  and  an  in- 
distinct translation  of  the  Greek  word  for  “ wind.”  The  same 
word  is  used  in  writing,  “ The  wind  bloweth  where  it  listeth 
and  in  writing,  “So  is  every  one  that  is  born  of  the  Spirit  ;■* 
born  of  the  breath , that  is  ; for  it  means  the  breath  of  God,  in 
soul  and  body.  We  have  the  true  sense  of  it  in  our  words 
“inspiration”  and  “expire.”  Now,  there  are  two  kinds  of 
breath  with  which  the  flock  may  be  filled  ; God’s  breath,  and 
man’s.  The  breath  of  God  is  health,  and  life,  and  peace  to 
them,  as  the  air  of  heaven  is  to  the  flocks  on  the  hills ; but 
man’s  breath — the  word  which  he  calls  spiritual, — is  disease 
and  contagion  to  them,  as  the  fog  of  the  fen.  They  rot  in 
* Compare  the  13th  Letter  in  Time  and  Tide 


OF  KINGS'  TREASURIES. 


49 


wardly  with  it ; they  are  puffed  up  by  it,  as  a dead  body  by 
the  vapours  of  its  own  decomposition.  This  is  literally  true 
of  all  false  religious  teaching  ; the  first  and  last,  and  fatalest 
sign  of  it  is  that  “ puffing  up.”  Your  converted  children,  who 
teach  their  parents  ; your  converted  convicts,  who  teach  hon- 
est men  ; your  converted  dunces,  who,  having  lived  in  cretind 
ous  stupefaction  half  their  lives,  suddenly  awakening  to  the 
fact  of  there  being  a God,  fancy  themselves  therefore  His  pe- 
culiar people  and  messengers ; your  sectarians  of  every  spe- 
cies, small  and  great,  Catholic  or  Protestant,  of  high  church 
or  low,  in  so  far  as  they  think  themselves  exclusively  in  the 
right  and  others  wrong ; and  pre-eminently,  in  every  sect, 
those  who  hold  that  men  can  be  saved  by  thinking  rightly  in- 
stead of  doing  rightly,  by  word  instead  of  act,  and  wish  in- 
stead of  work : — these  are  the  true  fog  children — clouds,  these, 
without  water ; bodies,  these,  of  putrescent  vapour  and  skin, 
without  blood  or  flesh  : blown  bag-pipes  for  the  fiends  to  pipe 
with — corrupt,  and  corrupting, — “ Swollen  with  wind,  and  the 
rank  mist  they  draw.” 

Lastly,  let  Us  return  to  the  lines  respecting  the  power  of  the 
keys,  for  now  we  can  understand  them.  Note  the  difference 
between  Milton  and  Dante  in  their  interpretation  of  this 
power  : for  once,  the  latter  is  weaker  in  thought ; he  supposes 
both  the  keys  to  be  of  the  gate  of  heaven  ; one  is  of  gold,  the 
other  of  silver  : they  are  given  by  St.  Peter  to  the  sentinel 
angel ; and  it  is  not  easy  to  determine  the  meaning  either  of 
the  substances  of  the  three  steps  of  the  gate,  or  of  the  two 
keys.  But  Milton  makes  one,  of  gold,  the  key  of  heaven  ; the 
other,  of  iron,  the  key  of  the  prison,  in  which  the  wicked 
teachers  are  to  be  bound  who  “ have  taken  away  the  key  of 
knowledge,  yet  entered  not  in  themselves.” 

We  have  seen  that  the  duties  of  bishop  and  pastor  are  to 
see,  and  feed  ; and,  of  all  who  do  so,  it  is  said,  ■“  He  that 
watereth,  shall  be  watered  also  himself.”  But  the  reverse  is 
truth  also.  He  that  watereth  not,  shall  be  withered  himself, 
and  he  that  seetli  not,  shall  himself  be  shut  out  of  sight, — > 
shut  into  the  perpetual  prison-house.  And  that  prison  open? 
here,  as  well  as  hereafter : he  who  is  to  be  bound  in  heaven 


50 


SESAME  AND  LILIES. 


must  first  be  bound  on  earth.  That  command  to  the  strong 
angels,  of  which  the  rock-apostle  is  the  image,  “ Take  him, 
and  bind  him  hand  and  foot,  and  cast  him  out,”  issues,  in  its 
measure,  against  the  teacher,  for  every  help  withheld,  and 
for  every  truth  refused,  and  for  every  falsehood  enforced  ; so 
that  he  is  more  strictly  fettered  the  more  he  fetters,  and 
farther  outcast,  as  he  more  and  more  misleads,  till  at  last  the 
bars  of  the  iron  cage  close  upon  him,  and  as  “ the  golden 
opes,  the  iron  shuts  amain.” 

We  have  got  something  out  of  the  lines,  I think,  and  much 
more  is  yet  to  be  found  in  them  ; but  we  have  done  enough 
by  way  of  example  of  the  kind  of  word-by-word  examination 
of  your  author  whicli  is  rightly  called  “reading  watching 
every  accent  and  expression,  and  putting  ourselves  always  in 
the  author’s  place,  annihilating  our  own  personality,  and 
seeking  to  enter  into  his,  so  as  to  be  able  assuredly  to  say, 
“Thus  Milton  thought,”  not  “Thus  I thought,  in  mis-reading 
Milton.”  And  by  this  process  you  wTill  gradually  come  to  at- 
tach  less  weight  to  your  own  “ Thus  I thought  ” at  other  I 
times.  You  will  begin  to  perceive  that  what  you  thought  was 
a matter  of  no  serious  importance  ; — that  your  thoughts  on 
any  subject  are  not  perhaps  the  clearest  and  wisest  that  could 
be  arrived  at  thereupon  : — in  fact,  that  unless  you  are  a very 
singular  person,  you  cannot  be  said  to  have  any  “ thoughts  ” 
at  all ; that  you  have  no  materials  for  them,  in  any  serious 
matters  ; * — no  right  to  “ think,”  but  only  to  try  to  learn  more 
of  the  facts.  Nay,  most  probably  all  your  life  (unless,  as  I 
said,  you  are  a singular  person)  you  will  have  no  legitimate 
right  to  an  “ opinion  ” on  any  business,  except  that  instantly 
under  your  hand.  What  must  of  necessity  be  done,  you  can 
always  find  out,  beyond  question,  how  to  do.  Have  you  a 
house  to  keep  in  order,  a commodity  to  sell,  a field  to  plough, 
a ditch  to  cleanse  ? There  need  be  no  two  opinions  about 
these  proceedings ; it  is  at  your  peril  if  you  have  not  much 
more  than  an  “ opinion  ” on  the  way  to  manage  such  matters. 

* Modern  “ Education  ” for  the  most  part  signifies  giving  people  the 
faculty  of  thinking  wrong  on  every  conceivable  subject  of  important  tn 
tkdH9L. 


oK  KINGS'  TREASURIES. 


51 


And  also,  outside  of  your  own  business,  there  are  one  or  two 
subjects  on  which  you  are  bound  to  have  but  one  opinion. 
That  roguery  and  lying  are  objectionable,  and  are  instantly 
to  be  flogged  out  of  the  way  whenever  discovered  ; — that 
covetousness  and  love  of  quarrelling  are  dangerous  disposi- 
tions even  in  children,  and  deadly  dispositions  in  men  and 
nations;— that  in  the  end,  the  God  of  heaven  and  earth  loves 
active,  modest,  and  kind  people,  and  hates  idle,  proud,  greedy, 
and  cruel  ones  ; — on  these  general  facts  you  are  bound  to 
have  but  one  and  that  a very  strong,  opinion.  For  the  rest, 
respecting  religions,  governments,  sciences,  arts,  you  will  find 
that,  on  the  whole,  you  can  know7  nothing, — judge  nothing ; 
that  the  best  you  can  do,  even  though  you  may  be  a well- 
educated  person,  is  to  be  silent,  and  strive  to  be  wiser  every 
day,  and  to  understand  a little  more  of  the  thoughts  of  others, 
which  so  soon  as  you  try  to  do  honestly,  you  will  discover 
that  the  thoughts  even  of  the  wisest  are  very  little  more  than 
| pertinent  questions.  To  put  the  difficulty  into  a clear  shape, 
and  exhibit  to  you  the  grounds  for  indecision,  that  is  all  they 
can  generally  do  for  you  ! — and  well  for  them  and  for  us,  if 
j indeed  they  are  able  “to  mix  the  music  with  our  thoughts, 
and  sadden  us  with  heavenly  doubts.”  This  writer,  from 
whom  I have  been  reading  to  you,  is  not  among  the  first  or 
wisest : he  sees  shrewdly  as  far  as  he  sees,  and  therefore  it  is 
easy  to  find  out  his  full  meaning  ; but  with  the  greater  men, 
you  cannot  fathom  their  meaning  ; they  do  not  even  wholly 
ij  measure  it  themselves, — it  is  so  wide.  Suppose  I had  asked 
I you,  for  instance,  to  seek  for  Shakespeare’s  opinion,  instead  of 
Milton’s,  on  this  matter  of  Church  authority?— or  for  Dante’s? 
Have  any  of  you,  at  this  instant,  the  least  idea  what  either 
,!  thought  about  it  ? Have  you  ever  balanced  the  scene  with 
the  bishops  in  Richard  IH.  against  the  character  of  Cranmer  ? 
the  description  of  St.  Francis  and  St.  Dominic  against  that 
of  him  who  made  Virgil  wonder  to  gaze  upon  him, — “disteso, 
tanto  vilmente,  nell’  eterno  esilio ; ” or  of  him  whom  Dante 
stood  beside,  “come  ’1  frate  che  confessa  lo  perfido  as- 
sassin ? ” * Shakespeare  and  Alighieri  knew7  men  better  than 
* Inf.  xix.  71 ; 117- 


52 


SESAME  AND  LILIES. 


most  of  us,  I presume  ! They  were  both  in  the  midst  of  the 
main  struggle  between  the  temporal  and  spiritual  powers. 
They  had  an  opinion,  we  may  guess  ? But  where  is  it  ? Bring 
it  into  court!  Put  Shakespeare’s  or  Dante’s  creed  into 
articles,  and  send  that  up  into  the  Ecclesiastical  Courts ! 

You  will  not  be  able,  I tell  you  again,  for  many  and  many 
a day,  to  come  at  the  real  purposes  and  teaching  of  these 
great  men  ; but  a very  little  honest  study  of  them  will  ena- 
ble you  to  perceive  that  what  you  took  for  your  own  “judg- 
ment” was  mere  chance  prejudice,  and  drifted,  helpless, 
entangled  weed  of  castaway  thought : na}’’,  you  will  see 
that  most  men’s  minds  are  indeed  little  better  than  rough 
heath  wilderness,  neglected  and  stubborn,  partly  barren, 
partly  overgrown  with  pestilent  brakes  and  venomous  wind- 
sown  herbage  of  evil  surmise  ; that  the  first  thing  you  have 
to  do  for  them,  and  yourself,  is  eagerly  and  scornfully  to  set 
fire  to  this ; burn  all  the  jungle  into  wholesome  ash  heaps, 
and  then  plough  and  sow.  All  the  true  literary  work  before 
you,  for  life,  must  begin  with  obedience  to  that  order, 
“ Break  up  your  fallow  ground,  and  sow  not  among  thorns” 

II,  Having  then  faithfully  listened  to  the  great  teachers, 
that  you  may  enter  into  their  Thoughts,  you  have  3ret  this 
higher  advance  to  make ; — you  have  to  enter  into  their 
Hearts.  As  you  go  to  them  first  for  clear  sight,  so  you  must 
stay  with  them  that  you  may  share  at  last  their  just  and 
mighty  Passion.  Passion,  or  “sensation.”  I am  not  afraid 
of  the  word  ; still  less  of  the  thing.  You  have  heard  many 
outcries  against  sensation  lately  ; but,  I can  tell  you,  it  is 
not  less  sensation  we  want,  but  more.  The  ennobling  differ- 
ence between  one  man  and  another, — between  one  animal 
and  another, — is  precisely  in  this,  that  one  feels  more  than 
another.  If  we  were  sponges,  perhaps  sensation  might  not 
be  easily  got  for  us  ; if  we  were  earth-worms,  liable  at  every 
instant  to  be  cut  in  two  by  the  spade,  perhaps  too  much  sen- 
sation might  not  be  good  for  us.  But,  being  human  crea- 
tures, it  is  good  for  us  ; nay,  we  are  only  human  in  so  far  as 
we  are  sensitive,  and  our  honour  is  precisely  in  proportion  ic 
our  passion. 


OF  KINGS ’ TREASURIES. 


53 


You  know  I said  of  that  great  and  pure  society  of  the 
dead,  that  it  would  allow  “ no  vain  or  vulgar  person  to  enter 
there/’  What  do  you  think  I meant  by  a “ vulgar  ” person  ? 
What  do  you  yourselves  mean  by  “vulgarity?”  You  will 
find  it  a fruitful  subject  of  thought ; but,  briefly,  the  essence 
of  all  vulgarity  lies  in  want  of  sensation.  Simple  and  inno- 
cent  vulgarity  is  merely  an  untrained  and  undeveloped  blunt- 
ness of  body  and  mind  ; but  in  true  inbred  vulgarity,  there 
is  a deathful  callousness,  which,  in  extremity,  becomes  capa- 
ble of  every  sort  of  bestial  habit  and  crime,  without  fear, 
without  pleasure,  without  horror,  and  without  pity.  It  is  in 
the  blunt  hand  and  the  dead  heart,  in  the  diseased  habit,  in 
the  hardened  conscience,  that  men  become  vulgar  ; they  are 
for  ever  vulgar,  precisely  in  proportion  as  they  are  incapable 
of  sympathy, — of  quick  understanding, — of  all  that,  in  deep 
insistance  on  the  common,  but  most  accurate  term,  may  be 
called  the  “ tact  ” or  touch-faculty  of  body  and  soul ; that 
tact  which  the  Mimosa  has  in  trees,  which  the  pure  woman 
has  above  all  creatures  ; — fineness  and  fulness  of  sensation,  be- 
yond reason  ; — the  guide  and  sanctifier  of  reason  itself. 
Reason  can  but  determine  what  is  true  : — it  is  the  God-given 
passion  of  humanity  which  alone  can  recognize  what  God 
has  made  good. 

We  come  then  to  the  great  concourse  of  the  Dead,  not 
merely  to  know  from  them  what  is  True,  but  chiefly  to  feel 
with  them  what  is  Righteous.  Now,  to  feel  with  them,  we 
must  be  like  them  ; and  none  of  us  can  become  that  without 
pains.  As  the  true  knowledge  is  disciplined  and  tested 
knowledge, — not  the  first  thought  that  comes, — so  the  true 
passion  is  disciplined  and  tested  passion — not  the  first  pas- 
sion that  comes.  The  first  that  come  are  the  vain,  the  false, 
the  treacherous  ; if  you  yield  to  them  they  will  lead  you 
wildly  and  far  in  vain  pursuit,  in  hollow  enthusiasm,  till  you 
have  no  true  purpose  and  no  true  passion  left.  Not  that  any 
feeling  possible  to  humanity  is  in  itself  wrong,  but  only 
wrong  when  undisciplined.  Its  nobility  is  in  its  force  and 
justice  ; it  is  wrong  when  it  is  weak,  and  felt  for  paltry 
cause.  There  is  a mean  wonder  as  of  a child  who  sees  a jug* 
4 


54 


SESAME  AND  LILIES. 


gler  tossing  golden  balls,  and  this  is  base,  if  you  will.  But 
do  you  think  that  the  wonder  is  ignoble,  or  the  sensation 
less,  with  which  every  human  soul  is  called  to  watch  the 
golden  balls  of  heaven  tossed  through  the  night  by  the  Hand 
that  made  them  ? There  is  a mean  curiosity,  as  of  a child 
opening  a forbidden  door,  or  a servant  prying  into  her  mas- 
ter’s business  ; — and  a noble  curiosity,  questioning,  in  the 
front  of  danger,  the  source  of  the  great  river  beyond  the 
sand — the  place  of  the  great  continents  beyond  the  sea  a 
nobler  curiosity  still,  which  questions  of  the  source  of  the 
River  of  Life,  and  of  the  space  of  the  Continent  of  Heaven, — 
things  which  “ the  angels  desire  to  look  into.”  So  the  anx- 
iety is  ignoble,  with  which  you  linger  over  the  course  and 
catastrophe  of  an  idle  tale  ; but  do  you  think  the  anxiety  is 
less,  or  greater,  wfith  which  you  watch,  or  ought  to  watch,  tbe 
dealings  of  fate  and  destiny  with  the  life  of  an  agonized  na- 
tion ? Alas ! is  is  the  narrowness,  selfishness,  minuteness,  of 
your  sensation  that  you  have  to  deplore  in  England  at  this 
day  —sensation  which  spends  itself  in  bouquets  and  speech- 
es ; in  revellings  and  junketings  ; in  sham  fights  and  gay 
puppet  shows,  while  you  can  look  on  and  see  noble  nations 
murdered,  man  by  man,  woman  by  woman,  child  by  child, 
without  an  effort,  or  a tear. 

I said  “minuteness”  and  “selfishness”  of  sensation,  but 
in  a word,  I ought  to  have  said  “ injustice ” or  “unrighteous- 
ness ” of  sensation.  For  as  in  nothing  is  a gentleman  better 
to  be  discerned  from  a vulgar  person,  so  in  nothing  is  a gen- 
tle nation  (such  nations  have  been)  better  to  be  discerned 
from  a mob,  than  in  this, — that  their  feelings  are  constant 
and  just,  results  of  dme  contemplation,  and  of  equal  thought. 
You  can  talk  a mob  into  anything  ; its  feelings  may  be — usu- 
ally are — on  the  whole  generous  and  right ; but  it  has  no 
foundation  for  them,  no  hold  of  them  ; you  may  tease  or 
tickle  it  into  any,  at  your  pleasure  ; it  thinks  by  infection,  for 
the  most  part,  catching  a passion  like  a cold,  and  there  is 
nothing  so  little  that  it  will  not  roar  itself  wild  about,  w7hen 
the  fit  is  on  ; — nothing  so  great  but  it  will  forget  in  an  hour, 
when  the  fit  is  past.  But  a gentleman’s  or  a gentle  nation’s, 


OF  JUNGS'  TREASURIES. 


55 


passions  are  just,  measured  and  continuous.  A great  nation, 
for  instance,  does  not  spend  its  entire  national  wits  for  a 
couple  of  months  in  weighing  evidence  of  a single  ruffian’s 
having  done  a single  murder  ; and  for  a couple  of  years,  see 
its  own  children  murder  each  other  by  their  thousands  or  tens 
of  thousands  a day,  considering  only  what  the  effect  is  likely 
to  be  on  the  price  of  cotton,  and  caring  nowise  to  determine 
which  side  of  battle  is  in  the  wrong.  Neither  does  a great 
nation  send  its  poor  little  boys  to  jail  for  stealing  six  walnuts 
and  allow  its  bankrupts  to  steal  their  hundreds  or  thousands 
with  a bow,  and  its  bankers,  rich  with  poor  men’s  savings,  to 
close  their  doors  “ under  circumstances  over  which  they  have 
no  control,”  with  a “by  your  leave  ; ” and  large  landed  es- 
tates to  be  bought  by  men  who  have  made  their  money  by 
going  with  armed  steamers  up  and  down  the  China  Seas,  sell- 
ing opium  at  the  cannon’s  mouth,  and  altering,  for  the  benefit 
of  the  foreign  nation,  the  common  highwayman’s  demand  of 
“ your  money  or  your  life,”  into  that  of  “ your  money  and 
your  life.”  Neither  does  a great  nation  allow  the  lives  of  its 
innocent  poor  to  be  parched  out  of  them  by  fog  fever,  and 
rotted  out  of  them  by  dunghill  plague,  for  the  sake  of  six- 
pence a life  extra  per  week  to  its  landlords  ; * and  then  debate, 

* See  the  evidence  in  the  Medical  officer’s  report  to  the  Privy  Council, 
just  published.  There  are  suggestions  in  its  preface  which  will  make 
some  stir  among  us,  I fancy,  respecting  which  let  me  note  these  points 
following : — 

There  are  two  theories  on  the  subject  of  land  now  abroad,  and  in  con- 
tention ; both  false. 

The  first  is  that  by  Heavenly  law,  there  have  always  existed,  and  must 
continue  to  exist,  a certain  number  of  hereditarily  sacred  persons,  to 
whom  the  earth,  air,  and  water  of  the  world  belong,  as  personal  prop- 
erty ; of  which  earth,  air  and  water  these  persons  may,  at  their  pleas- 
ure, permit,  or  forbid,  the  rest  of  the  human  race  to  eat,  breathe,  or  to 
drink.  This  theory  is  not  for  many  years  longer  tenable.  The  adverse 
theory  is  that  a division  of  the  land  of  the  world  among  the  mob  of  the 
world  would  immediately  elevate  the  said  mob  into  sacred  personages  ; 
that  houses  would  then  build  themselves,  and  corn  grow  of  itself  ; and 
that  everybody  would  be  able  to  live,  without  doing  any  work  for  his  liv- 
ing. This  theory  would  also  be  found  highly  untenable  in  practice. 

It  will,  however,  require  some  rough  experiments,  and  rougher  cata& 


56 


SESAME  AND  LILIES. 


with  drivelling  tears,  and  diabolical  sympathies,  whether  it 
ought  not  piously  to  save,  and  nursingiy  cherish,  the  lives  of 
its  murderers.  Also,  a great  nation  having  made  up  its  mind 
that  hanging  is  quite  the  wholesomest  process  for  its  homi- 
cides in  general,  can  yet  with  mercy  distinguish  between  the 
degrees  of  guilt  in  homicides  ; and  does  not  yelp  like  a pack 
of  frost-pinched  wolf-cubs  on  the  blood-track  of  an  unhappy 
crazed  boy,  or  grey-haired  clodpate  Othello,  “perplexed  i:  the 
extreme,”  at  the  very  moment  that  it  is  sending  a Minister  of 
the  Crown  to  make  polite  speeches  to  a man  who  is  bayonet- 
ing young  girls  in  their  father’s  sight,  and  killing  noble  youtli3 
in  cool  blood,  faster  than  a country  butcher  kills  lambs  in 
spring.  And,  lastly,  a great  nation  does  not  mock  Heaven 

troplies,  even  in  this  magnesium  lighted  epoch,  before  the  generality  of 
persons  will  be  convinced  that  no  law  concerning  anything  least  of  all 
concerning  land,  for  either  holding  or  dividing  it,  or  renting  it  high,  or 
renting  it  low,  would  be  of  the  smallest  ultimate  use  to  the  people,  so 
long  as  the  general  contest  for  life,  and  for  the  means  of  life,  remains 
one  of  mere  brutal  competition.  That  contest,  in  an  unprincipled  na- 
tion, will  take  one  deadly  form  or  another,  whatever  laws  you  make  for 
it.  For  instance,  it  would  be  an  entirely  wholesome  law  for  England, 
if  it  could  be  carried,  that  maximum  limits  should  be  assigned  to  incomes 
according  to  classes  ; and  that  every  nobleman’s  income  should  be  paid  to 
him  as  a fixed  salary  or  pension  by  the  nation  ; and  not  squeezed  by  him 
in  a variable  sum,  at  discretion,  out  of  the  tenants  of  his  land.  But  if 
you  could  get  such  a law  passed  to-morrow  ; and  if,  which  would  be 
farther  necessary,  you  could  fix  the  value  of  the  assigned  incomes  by 
making  a given  weight  of  pure  wlieat-fiour  legal  tender  for  a given  sum, 
a twelve-month  would  not  pass  before  another  currency  would  have 
been  tacitly  established,  and  the  power  of  accumulative  wealth  would 
have  re-asserted  itself  in  some  other  article,  or  some  imaginary  sign. 
Forbid  men  to  buy  each  other’s  lives  for  sovereigns,  and  they  will  for 
shells,  or  slates.  There  is  only  one  cure  for  public  distress  - and  that  is 
public  education,  directed  to  make  men  thoughtful,  merciful,  and  just. 
There  are,  indeed,  many  laws  conceivable  which  would  gradually  bet- 
ter and  strengthen  the  national  temper  ; blit,  for  the  most  part,  they  are 
such  as  the  national  temper  must  be  much  bettered  before  it  would  bear. 
A nation  in  its  youth  may  be  helped  by  laws,  as  a weak  child  by  back- 
boards, but  when  it  is  old,  it  cannot  that  way  straighten  its  crooked 
spine. 

And  besides,  the  problem  of  land,  at  its  worst,  is  a bye  one  ; distrib- 
ute the  *■  \fcli  as  you  will,  the  principal  question  remains  inexorable* 


OF  KINGS'  TREASURIES . 


57 


and  its  Powers,  by  pretending  belief  in  a revelation  which  as- 
serts the  love  of  money  to  be  the  root  of  all  evil,  and  declaring, 
at  the  same  time,  that  it  is  actuated,  and  intends  to  be  actuated, 
in  all  chief  national  deeds  and  measures,  by  no  other  love. 

My  friends,  I do  not  know  why  any  of  us  should  talk  about 
reading.  We  want  some  sharper  discipline  than  that  of  read- 
ing ; but,  at  all  events,  be  assured,  we  cannot  read.  No  read- 
ing is  possible  for  a people  with  its  mind  in  this  state.  No 
sentence  of  any  great  writer  is  intelligible  to  them.  It  is 
simply  and  sternly  impossible  for  the  English  public,  at  this 
moment,  to  understand  any  thoughtful  writing, — so  incapa- 
ble of  thought  has  it  become  in  its  insanity  of  avarice.  Hap- 
pily, our  disease  is,  as  yet,  little  worse  than  this  incapacity  of 

Who  is  to  dig  it  ? Which  of  us,  in  brief  words,  is  to  do  the  hard  and 
dirty  work  for  the  rest —and  for  what  pay  Who  is  to  do  the  pleasant 
ar.d  clean  work,  and  for  what  pay  ? Who  is  to  do  no  work,  and  for 
what  pay  ? And  there  are  curious  moral  and  religious  questions  con- 
nected with  these.  How  far  is  it  lawful  to  suck  a portion  of  the  soul 
out  of  a great  many  persons,  in  order  to  put  the  abstracted  psychical 
quantities  together,  and  make  one  very  beautiful  or  ideal  soul  ? If  we  had 
to  deal  with  mere  blood,  instead  of  spirit,  and  the  thing  might  literally 
be  done  (as  it  lias  been  done  with  infants  before  now  so  that  it  were  pos- 
sible, by  taking  a certain  quantity  of  blood  from  the  arms  of  a given 
number  of  the  mob,  and  putting  it  all  into  one  person,  to  make  a more 
azure-blooded  gentleman  of  him,  the  thing  would  of  course  be  managed; 
but  secretly,  I should  conceive.  But  now,  because  it  is  brain  and  soul 
that  we  abstract,  not  visible  blood,  it  can  be  done  quite  openly  ; and  we 
live,  we  gentlemen,  on  delicatest  prey,  after  the  manner  of  weasels  ; 
that  is  to  say,  we  keep  a certain  number  of  clowns  digging  and  ditch- 
ing, and  generally  stupefied,  in  order  that  we,  being  fed  gratis,  may  have 
all  the  thinking  and  feeling  to  ourselves.  Yet  there  is  a great  deal  to 
| be  said  for  this.  A highly  bred  and  trained  English,  French,  Austrian 
cr  Italian  gentleman  (much  more  a lady)  is  a great  production  ; a better 
production  than  most  statues  ; being  beautifully  coloured  as  well  as 
I shaped,  and  plus  all  the  brains  ; a glorious  thing  to  look  at  a wonderful 
thing  to  talk  to  ; and  you  cannot  have  it,  any  more  than  a pyramid  or  a 
I church,  but  by  sacrifice  of  much  contributed  life.  And  it  is,  perhaps. 

bitter  to  build  a beautiful  human  creature  than  a beautiful  dome  or 
j steeple,  and  more  delightful  to  look  up  reverently  to  a creature  far  above 
us,  than  to  a wall  ; only  the  beautiful  human  creature  will  have  some 
duties  to  do  in  return — duties  of  living  belfry  and  rampart — of  which 
I presently. 


58 


SESAME  AND  LILIES. 


thought ; it  is  not  corruption  of  the  inner  nature ; we  ring  true 
still,  when  anything  strikes  home  to  us  ; and  though  the  idea 
that  everything  should  “pay”  has  infected  our  every  purpose 
so  deeply,  that  even  when  we  would  play  the  good  Samaritan, 
we  never  take  out  our  twopence  and  give  them  to  the  host, 
without  saying,  “ When  I come  again,  thou  shalt  give  me 
fourpence,”  there  is  a capacity  of  noble  passion  left  in  our 
hearts’  core.  We  show  it  in  our  work-in  our  Avar, — even  in 
those  unjust  domestic  affections  which  make  us  furious  at  a 
small  private  Avrong,  Avliile  we  are  polite  to  a boundless  public 
one  : we  are  still  industrious  to  the  last  hour  of  the  day, 
though  we  add  the  gambler’s  fury  to  the  labourers  patience  ; 
we  are  still  brave  to  the  death,  though  incapable  of  discern- 
ing true  cause  for  battle,  and  are  still  true  in  affection  to  our 
own  flesh,  to  the  death,  as  the  sea-monsters  are,  and  the  rock- 
eagles.  And  there  is  hope  for  a nation  Avhile  this  can  be  still 
said  of  it.  As  long  as  it  holds  its  life  in  its  hand,  ready  to 
give  it  for  its  honour  (though  a foolish  honour),  for  its  loA'e 
(though  a selfish  love),  and  for  its  business  (though  a base 
business),  there  is  hope  for  it.  But  hope  only  ; for  this  in- 
stinctive, reckless  virtue  cannot  last.  No  nation  can  last, 
which  has  made  a mob  of  itself,  hoAve\rer  generous  at  heart. 
It  must  discipline  its  passions,  and  direct  them,  or  they  will 
discipline  it,  one  day,  with  scorpion  Avhips.  Above  all,  a na- 
tion cannot  last  as  a money-making  mob  : it  cannot  with  im- 
punity,— it  cannot  Avith  existence, — go  on  despising  literature, 
despising  science,  despising  art,  despising  nature,  despising 
compassion,  and  concentrating  its  soul  on  Pence.  Bo  you 
think  these  are  harsh  or  Avild  words  ? Have  patience  with  me 
but  a little  longer.  I Avill  prove  their  truth  to  you,  clause  by 
clause. 

I.  I say  first  Ave  have  despised  literature.  What  do  we,  as 
a nation,  care  about  books?  Hoav  much  do  you  think  we 
spend  altogether  on  our  libraries,  public  or  private,  as  com- 
pared with  what  Ave  spend  on  our  horses?  If  a man  spends 
lavishly  on  his  library,  you  call  him  mad — a biblio-maniac 
But  you  never  call  any  one  a horse-maniac,  though  men  ruin 
themselves  every  day  by  their  horses,  and  you  do  not  hear  of 


OF  KINGS'  TREASURIES. 


59 


people  mining  themselves  by  their  books.  Or,  to  go  lower 
still,  how  much  do  you  think  the  contents  of  the  book-shelves 
of  the  United  Kingdom,  public  and  private,  would  fetch,  as 
compared  with  the  contents  of  its  wine-cellars  ? What  posi- 
tion would  its  expenditure  on  literature  take,  as  compared 
with  its  expenditure  on  luxurious  eating?  We  talk  of  food 
for  the  mind,  as  of  food  for  the  body  : now  a good  book  con- 
tains such  food  inexhaustibly  ; it  is  a provision  for  life,  and 
for  the  best  part  of  us  ; yet  how  long  most  people  would  look 
at  the  best  book  before  they  would  give  the  price  of  a large 
turbot  for  it ! Though  there  have  been  men  who  have  pinched 
their  stomachs  and  bared  their  backs  to  buy  a book,  whose 
libraries  were  cheaper  to  them,  I think,  in  the  end,  than  most 
men’s  dinners  are.  We  are  few  of  us  put  to  such  trial,  and 
more  the  pity ; for,  indeed,  a precious  tiling  is  all  the  more 
precious  to  us  if  it  has  been  won  by  work  or  economy  ; and 
if  public  libraries  were  half  as  costly  as  public  dinners,  or 
books  cost  the  tenth  part  of  what  bracelets  do,  even  foolish 
men  and  women  might  sometimes,  suspect  there  was  good  in 
reading,  as  well  as  in  munching  and  sparkling  ; whereas  the 
very  cheapness  of  literature  is  making  even  wise  people  forget 
that  if  a book  is  worth  reading,  it  is  worth  buying.  No  book 
is  worth  anything  which  is  not  worth  much  ; nor  is  it  ser- 
viceable, until  it  has  been  read,  and  reread,  and  loved,  and 
loved  again  ; and  marked,  so  that  you  can  refer  to  the  pas- 
sages you  want  in  it,  as  a soldier  can  seize  the  weapon  he 
needs  in  an  armoury,  or  a housewife  bring  the  spice  she  needs 
from  her  store.  Bread  of  flour  is  good  : but  there  is  bread, 
sweet  as  honey,  if  we  would  eat  it,  in  a good  book  ; and  the 
family  must  be  poor  indeed  which,  once  in  their  lives,  can- 
not, for  such  multipliable  barley -loaves,  pay  their  baker’s  bill. 
We  call  ourselves  a rich  nation,  and  we  are  filthy  and  foolish 
enough  to  thumb  each  other’s  books  out  of  circulating  libraries  I 
II.  I say  we  have  despised  science.  “ What ! ” (you  ex- 
claim) “are  we  not  foremost  in  all  discovery,  and  is  not  the 
whole  world  giddy  by  reason,  or  unreason,  of  our  inventions?” 
VTes  ; but  do  you  suppose  that  is  national  work  ? That  work 
’s  all  done  in  spite  of  the  nation  ; by  private  people’s  zeal  and 


60 


SESAME  AND  LILIES. 


money  We  are  glad  enough,  indeed,  to  make  our  profit  oi 
science  ; we  snap  up  anything  in  the  way  of  a scientific  bone 
that  has  meat  on  it,  eagerly  enough  ; but  if  the  scientific  man 
comes  for  a bone  or  a crust  to  us,  that  is  another  story. 
What  have  wTe  publicly  done  for  science  ? We  are  obliged  to 
know  what  o’clock  it  is,  for  the  safety  of  our  ships,  and  there- 
fore we  pay  for  an  observatory  ; and  we  allow  ourselves,  in 
the  person  of  our  Parliament,  to  be  annually  tormented  into 
doing  something,  in  a slovenly  way,  for  the  British  Museum  ; 
sullenly  apprehending  that  to  be  a place  for  keeping  stuffed 
birds  in,  to  amuse  our  children.  If  anybody  will  pay  for 
their  own  telescope,  and  resolve  another  nebula,  we  cackle 
over  the  discernment  as  if  it  were  our  own  ; if  one  in  ten 
thousand  of  our  hunting  squires  suddenly  perceives  that  the 
earth  w~as  indeed  made  to  be  something  else  than  a portion 
for  foxes,  and  burrows  in  it  himself,  and  tells  us  where  the 
gold  is,  and  where  the  coals,  we  understand  that  there  is 
some  use  in  that ; and  very  properly  knight  him  : but  is  the 
accident  of  his  having  found  out  how  to  emploj7  himself 
usefully  any  credit  to  us  f (The  negation  of  such  discovery 
among  his  brother  squires  may  perhaps  be  some  discredit  to 
us,  if  we  would  consider  of  it.)  But  if  you  doubt  these  gen- 
eralities, here  is  one  fact  for  us  all  to  meditate  upon,  illus- 
trative of  our  love  of  science.  Two  years  ago  there  was  a 
collection  of  the  fossils  of  Solenhofen  to  be  sold  in  Bavaria  ; 
the  best  in  existence,  containing  many  specimens  unique  for 
perfectness,  and  one,  unique  as  an  example  of  a species  (a 
whole  kingdom  of  unknown  living  creatures  being  announced 
by  that  fossil).  This  collection,  of  wilich  the  mere  market 
worth,  among  private  buyers,  would  probably  have  been  some 
thousand  or  twelve  hundred  pounds,  was  offered  to  the  Eng« 
lish  nation  for  seven  hundred  : but  w7e  would  not  give  seven 
hundred,  and  the  whole  series  would  have  been  in  the  Munich 
Museum  at  this  moment,  if  Professor  Owen  * had  not,  with 

* 1 state  this  fact  without  Professor  Owen’s  permission  : which  of 
course  he  could  not  with  propriety  have  granted,  had  1 asked  it ; hut  J 
consider  it  so  important  that  the  public  should  be  aware  of  the  faett 
that  I do  what  seems  to  be  right  though  rude. 


OF  KINGS7  TREASURIES. 


61 


loss  of  his  own  time,  and  piitient  tormenting  of  the  British 
public  in  person  of  its  representatives,  got  leave  to  give  four 
hundred  pounds  at  once,  and  himself  become  answerable  for 
the  other  three  ! which  the  said  public  will  doubtless  pay  him 
eventually,  but  sulkily,  and  caring  nothing  about  the  matter  all 
the  while  ; only  always  ready  to  cackle  if  any  credit  comes  of  it. 
Consider,  I beg  of  you,  arithmetically,  what  this  fact  means. 
Your  annual  expenditure  for  public  purposes  (a  third  of  it  for 
military  apparatus)  is  at  least  fifty  millions.  Now  700/  is  to 
50,000,000/.  roughly,  as  seven  pence  to  two  thousand  pounds. 
Suppose  then,  a gentlemen  of  unknown  income,  but  whose 
wealth  was  to  be  conjectured  from  the  fact  that  he  spent  two 
thousand  a year  on  his  park- walls  and  footmen  only,  professes 
himself  fond  of  science  ; and  that  one  of  his  servants  conies 
eagerly  to  tell  him  that  an  unique  collection  of  fossils,  giving 
clue  to  a new  era  of  creation,  is  to  be  had  for  the  sum  of 
seven  pence  sterling  ; and  that  the  gentleman,  who  is  fond  of 
science,  and  spends  two  thousand  a year  on  his  park,  answers, 
after  keeping  his  servant  waiting  several  months,  “Well ! I’ll 
give  you  four  pence  for  them,  if  you  will  be  answerable  for 
the  extra  three  pence  yourself,  till  next  year ! ” 

III.  I say  you  have  despised  Art ! “ What ! ” you  again 

answer,  “have  we  not  Art  exhibitions,  miles  long?  and  do  we 
not  pay  thousands  of  pounds  for  single  pictures  ? and  have 
we  not  Art  schools  and  institutions,  more  than  ever  nation 
had  before  ? ” Yes,  truly,  but  all  that  is  for  the  sake  of  the 
shop.  You  would  fain  sell  canvas  as  well  as  coals,  and 
crockery  as  well  as  iron  ; you  would  take  every  other  nation’s 
bread  out  of  its  mouth  if  you  could  ; * not  being  able  to  do 
that,  your  ideal  of  life  is  to  stand  in  the  thoroughfares  of 
the  world,  like  Ludgate  apprentices,  screaming  to  every 
passer-by,  “ What  d’ye  lack  ? ” You  know  nothing  of  your 
own  faculties  or  circumstances  ; you  fancy  that,  among  your 
damp,  flat,  fields  of  clay,  you  can  have  as  quick  art-fancy  as 

* That  was  our  real  idea  of  “ Free  Trade” — “ All  the  traSe  to  my- 
self.” You  find  now  that  by  “ competition  ” other  people  can  manage 
to  sell  something  as  well  as  you — and  now  we  call  for  Protection  again. 
Wretches  I 


C2 


SESAME  AND  LILIES. 


the  Frenchman  among  his  bronzed  vines,  or  the  Italian  undei 
his  volcanic  cliffs  ; — that  Art  may  be  learned  as  book-keeping 
is,  and  when  learned  will  give  you  more  books  to  keep.  You 
care  for  pictures,  absolutely,  no  more  than  you  do  for  th8 
bills  pasted  on  your  dead  walls.  There  is  always  room  on 
the  walls  for  the  bills  to  be  read, — never  for  the  pictures  to 
be  seen.  You  do  not  know  what  pictures  you  have  (by 
repute)  in  the  country,  nor  whether  they  are  false  or  true, 
nor  whether  they  are  taken  care  of  or  not ; in  foreign 
countries,  you  calmly  see  the  noblest  existing  pictures  in 
the  world  rotting  in  abandoned  wreck — (and,  in  Yenice,  with 
the  Austrian  guns  deliberately  pointed  at  the  palaces  con- 
taining them),  and  if  you  heard  that  all  the  Titians  in 
Europe  were  made  sand-bags  to-morrow  on  the  Austrian 
forts,  it  would  not  trouble  you  so  much  as  the  chance  of  a 
brace  or  two  of  game  less  in  your  own  bags  in  a day’s  shoot- 
ing. That  is  your  national  love  of  Art. 

IV.  Yrou  have  despised  nature  ; that  is  to  say,  all  the  deep 
and  sacred  sensations  of  natural  scenery.  The  French  revolu- 
tionists made  stables  of  the  cathedrals  of  France  ; you  have 
made  racecourses  of  the  cathedrals  of  the  earth.  Your  one 
conception  of  pleasure  is  to  drive  in  railroad  carriages  round 
their  aisles,  and  eat  off  their  altar's.*  You  have  put  a rail- 
road bridge  over  the  fall  of  Schaffhausen.  You  have 
tunnelled  the  cliffs  of  Lucerne  by  Tells  chapel  ; you  have 
destroyed  the  Clarens  shore  of  the  Lake  of  Geneva ; there 
is  not  a quiet  valley  in  England  that  you  have  not  filled  with 
bellowing  fire  ; there  is  no  particle  left  of  English  land  which 
you  have  not  trampled  coal  ashes  into — nor  any  foreign  city 
in  which  the  spread  of  your  presence  is  not  marked  among 
its  fair  old  streets  and  happy  gardens  by  a consuming  white 
leprosy  of  new  hotels  and  perfumers’  shops  : the  Alps  them- 
selves, which  your  own  poets  used  to  love  so  reverently,  you 
look  upon  as  soaped  poles  in  a bear-garden,  which  you  set 

* I meant  that  the  beautiful  places  of  the  world — Switzerland,  Italy, 
South  Germany,  and  so  on — are,  indeed,  the  truest  cathedrals — places 
to  be  reverent  in,  and  to  worship  in  ; and  that  we  only  care  to  drivo 
through  them  : and  to  eat  and  drink  at  their  most  sacred  places. 


OF  KINGS'  TREASURIES. 


G3 


yourselves  to  climb,  and  slide  down  again,  with  “ shrieks  of 
delight.”  When  you  are  past  shrieking,  having  no  human 
articulate  voice  to  say  you  are  glad  with,  you  fill  the  quietude 
of  their  valleys  with  gunpowder  blasts,  and  rush  home,  red 
with  cutaneous  eruption  of  conceit,  and  voluble  with  con* 
vulsive  hiccough  of  self-satisfaction.  I think  nearly  the  two 
sorrowfullest  spectacles  I have  ever  seen  in  humanity,  taking 
the  deep  inner  significance  of  them,  are  the  English  mobs  in 
the  valley  of  Chamouni,  amusing  themselves  with  firing  rusty 
howitzers  ; and  the  Swiss  vintagers  of  Zurich  expressing  their 
Christian  thanks  for  the  gift  of  the  vine,  by  assembling  in 
knots  in  the  “towers  of  the  vineyards,”  and  slowly  loading 
and  firing  liorse-pistols  from  morning  till  evening.  It  is 
pitiful  to  have  dim  conceptions  of  beauty  ; more  pitiful,  it 
seems  to  me,  to  have  conceptions  like  these,  of  mirth. 

Lastly.  You  despise  compassion.  There  is  no  need  of 
words  of  mine  for  proof  of  this.  I will  merely  print  one  of 
the  newspaper  paragraphs  which  I am  in  the  habit  of  cutting 
out  and  throwing  into  my  store-drawer  ; here  is  one  from  a 
Daily  Telegraph  of  an  early  date  this  year  ; date  which  though 
by  me  carelessly  left  unmarked,  is  easily  discoverable,  for  on 
the  back  of  the  slip  there  is  the  announcement  that  “yesterday 
the  seventh  of  the  special  services  of  this  year  was  performed 
by  the  Bishop  of  Ripon  in  St.  Paul’s  ; ” and  there  is  a pretty 
piece  of  modern  political  economy  besides,  worth  preserving 
note  of,  I think,  so  I print  it  in  the  note  below.*  But  my 
business  is  with  the  main  paragraph,  relating  one  of  such  facts 
as  happen  now  daily,  which,  by  chance,  has  taken  a form  in 
which  it  came  before  the  coroner.  I will  print  the  paragraph  in 

* It  is  announced  tliat  an  arrangement  lias  being  concluded  between 
the  Ministry  of  Finance  and  the  Bank  of  Credit  for  the  payment  of  the 
eleven  millions  which  the  State  has  to  pay  to  the  National  Bank  by  the 
14th  inst.  This  sum  will  be  raised  as  follows  : — The  eleven  commercial 
members  of  the  committee  of  the  Bank  of  Credit  will  each  borrow  a 
million  of  florins  for  three  months  of  this  bank,  which  will  accept  their 
bills,  which  again  will  be  discounted  by  the  National  Bank.  By  this 
arrangement  the  National  Bank  wiU  itself  furnish  the  funds  with  which 
it  will  be  paid. 


64 


SESAME  AND  LILIES . 


red.*  Be  sure,  the  facts  themselves  are  written  in  that  color, 
in  a book  which  we  shall  all  of  us,  literate  or  illiterate,  have 
to  read  our  page  of,  some  day. 

“ An  inquiry  was  held  on  Friday  by  Mr.  Richards,  deputy 
coroner,  at  the  White  Horse  Tavern,  Christ  Church,  Spital* 
fields,  respecting  the  death  of  Michael  Collins,  aged  58  years 
Mary  Collins,  a miserable-looking  woman,  said  that  she  lived 
with  the  deceased  and  his  son  in  a room  at  2,  Cobb’s  court, 
Christ  Church.  Deceased  was  a ‘translator’  of  boots.  Wit- 
ness went  out  and  bought  old  boots;  deceased  and  his  sou 
made  them  into  good  ones,  and  then  witness  sold  them  foi 
what  she  could  get  at  the  shops,  which  was  very  little  indeed- 
Deceased  and  his  son  used  to  work  night  and  day  to  try  and 
get  a little  bread  and  tea,  and  pay  for  the  room  (2.s\  a week), 
so  as  to  keep  the  home  together.  On  Friday  night  week  de- 
ceased got  up  from  his  bench  and  began  to  shiver.  He  threw 
down  the  boots,  saying,  ‘Somebody  else  must  finish  them 
when  I am  gone,  for  I can  do  no  more.’  There  was  no  fire, 
and  lie  said,  ‘I  would  be  better  if  I was  wrarm.’  Witness 
therefore  took  two  pairs  of  translated  boots f to  sell  at  the 
shop,  but  she  could  only  get  14 d.  for  the  twro  pairs,  for  the 
people  at  the  shop  said,  ‘We  must  have  our  profit.’  Witness 
got  141b.  of  coal,  and  a little  tea  and  bread.  Her  son  sat  up 
the  whole  night  to  make  the  ‘translations,’  to  get  money,  but 
deceased  died  on  Saturday  morning.  The  family  never  had 
enough  to  eat. — Coroner:  ‘It  seems  to  me  deplorable  that 
you  did  not  go  into  the  workhouse.’ — -Witness:  ‘We  "wanted 
the  comforts  of  our  little  home.’  A juror  asked  what  the  com- 
forts were,  for  he  only  saw  a little  straw  in  the  corner  of  the 
room,  the  windows  of  which  were  broken.  The  "witness  began 
to  cry,  and  said  that  they  had  a quilt  and  other  little  things. 
The  deceased  said  he  never  would  go  into  the  "workhouse, 
in  summer,  when  the  season  wras  good,  they  sometimes  made 
as  much  as  10s.  profit  in  the  week.  They  then  always  saved 

* The  following-  extract  was  printed  in  red  in  the  English  edition. 

j One  of  the  things  which  we  must  very  resolutely  enforce,  for  the 
good  of  all  classes,  in  our  future  arrangements,  must  be  that  they  wear 
no  “ translated  ” articles  of  dress.  See  the  preface. 


OF  KINGS'  TREASURIES. 


65 


towards  the  next  week,  which  was  generally  a bad  one.  In 
winter  they  made  not  half  so  much.  For  three  years  they 
had  been  getting  from  bad  to  worse. — Cornelius  Collins  said 
that  he  had  assisted  his  father  since  1847.  They  used  to  work 
so  far  into  the  night  that  both  nearly  lost  their  eyesight.  Wit- 
ness now  had  a film  over  his  eyes.  Five  years  ago  deceased 
applied  to  the  parish  for  aid.  The  relieving  officer  gave 
him  a 41b.  loaf,  and  told  him  if  he  came  again  he  should  ‘ get 
the  stones.’*  That  disgusted  deceased,  and  he  would  have 
nothing  to  do  with  them  since.  They  got  worse  and  worse 
until  last  Friday  week,  when  they  had  not  even  a halfpenny 
to  buy  a candle.  Deceased  then  lay  down  on  the  straw,  and 
said  he  could  not  live  till  morning. — A juror  : You  are  dying 
of  starvation  yourself,  and  you  ought  to  go  into  the  house 
until  the  summer.  Witness : If  we  went  in  we  should  die. 

* This  abbrevaition  of  the  penalty  of  useless  labour  is  cuiiously  coin- 
cident in  verbal  form  with  a certain  passage  which  some  of  us  may 
remember.  It  may  perhaps  be  well  to  preserve  beside  this  paragraph 
another  cutting  out  of  rny  store-drawer,  from  the  Morning  Post,  of  about 

a parallel  date,  Friday,  March  10th,  1805  : — “ The  salons  of  Mme.  C , 

who  did  the  honours  with  clever  imitative  grace  and  elegance,  were 
crowded  with  princes,  dukes,  marquises,  and  counts  - in  fac^,  with  the 
same  male  company  as  one  meets  at  the  parties  of  the  Princess  Metter- 
nich  and  Madame  Drouyn  de  Lhuys.  Some  English  peers  and  members 
of  Parliament  were  present,  and  appeared  to  enjoy  the  animated  and  daz- 
zlingly  improper  scene.  On  the  second  floor  the  supper  tables  were 
loaded  with  every  delicacy  of  the  season.  That  your  readers  may  form 
some  idea  of  the  dainty  fare  of  the  Parisian  demi  monde,  I copy  the 
menu  of  the  supper,  which  was  served  to  all  the  guests  (about  200) 
seated  at  four  o’clock.  Choice  Yquem,  Jobannisberg,  Laffitte,  Tokay, 
find  Champagne  of  the  finest  vintages  were  served  most  lavishly  through 
cut  the  morning.  After  supper  dancing  was  resumed  with  increased 
animation,  and  the  ball  terminated  with  a chaine  diabolique  and  a can- 
can d'evfer  at  seven  in  the  morning.  (Morning  service — ‘ Ere  the  fresh 
lawns  appeared,  under  the  opening  eyelids  of  the  Morn. — ’)  Here  is 
the  menu  : — ‘ Consomme  de  volaille  a la  Bagration ; 1G  hors-d'oeuvres 
varies.  Bnuchees  a la  Talleyrand.  Saumons  froids,  sauce  Bavigote. 
Filets  de  boeuf  en  Bellevue,  timbal*  s milanaises  chaudfroid  de  gibier; 
Dindes  truffees.  Pates  de  foies  gras,  buissons  d’ecrevisses,  salades 
venetienne3,  gelees  blanches  aux  fruits,  gateaux  mancini,  parisiens  et 
parisiennes.  Fromages  glaceg  Ananas.  Dessert.*  ” 


66 


SESAME  AND  LILIES . 


When  we  come  out  in  the  summer  we  should  be  like  people 
dropped  from  the  sky.  No  one  would  know  us,  and  we 
would  not  have  even  a room.  I could  work  now  if  I had 
food,  for  my  sight  would  get  better.  Dr.  G.  P.  Walker  said 
deceased  died  from  syncope,  from  exhaustion,  from  want  of 
food.  The  deceased  had  had  no  bedclothes.  For  four 
months  he  had  had  nothing  but  bread  to  eat.  There  was  not 
a particle  of  fat  in  the  body.  There  was  no  disease,  but  if 
there  had  been  medical  attendance,  he  might  have  survived 
the  syncope  or  fainting.  The  coroner  having  remarked  upon 
the  painful  nature  of  the  case,  the  jury  returned  the  following 
verdict,  ‘ That  deceased  died  from  exhaustion  from  want  of 
food  and  the  common  necessaries  of  life  ; also  through  want 
of  medical  aid.’” 

“Why  w7ould  witness  not  go  into  the  workhouse?”  you 
ask.  Well,  the  poor  seem  to  have  a prejudice  against  the 
wrorkhouse  wdiicli  the  rich  have  not ; for  of  course  every  one 
who  takes  a pension  from  Government  goes  into  the  work- 
house  on  a grand  scale  : only  the  workhouses  for  the  rich  do 
not  involve  the  idea  of  wrork,  and  should  be  called  play- 
houses. But  the  poor  like  to  die  independently,  it  appears  ; 
perhaps  if  we  made  the  plaj'-houses  for  them  pretty  and 
pleasant  enough,  or  gave  them  their  pensions  at  home,  and 
allowed  them  a little  introductory  peculation  with  the  public 
money,  their  minds  might  be  reconciled  to  it.  Meantime, 
here  are  the  facts : we  make  our  relief  either  so  insulting  to 
them,  or  so  painful,  that  they  rather  die  than  take  it  at  our 
hands  ; or,  for  third  alternative,  we  leave  them  so  untaught  and 
foolish  that  they  starve  like  brute  creatures,  wild  and  dumb, 
not  knowing  what  to  do,  or  what  to  ask.  I say,  you  despise 
compassion  ; if  you  did  not,  such  a newspaper  paragraph 
would  be  as  impossible  in  a Christian  country  as  a deliberate 
assassination  permitted  in  its  public  streets.*  “ Christian  ” 

* I am  heartily  glad  to  see  such  a paper  as  the  Pall  Mall  Gazette  es- 
tablished ; for  the  power  of  the  press  in  the  hands  of  highly-educated 
men,  in  independent  position,  and  of  honest  purpose,  may  indeed  be- 
come all  that  it  has  been  hitherto  vainly  vaunted  to  be.  Its  editor  will 
therefore,  I doubt  not,  pardon  me,  in  that,  by  very  reason  of  my  respeefe 


OF  KINGS'  TREASURIES . 


67 


did  I say  ? Alas,  if  we  were  but  wholesomely  un- Christian,  it 
would  be  impossible  : it  is  our  imaginary  Christianity  that 
helps  us  to  commit  these  crimes,  for  we  revel  and  luxuriate  in 
our  faith,  for  the  lewd  sensation  of  it  ; dressing  it  up,  like 
everything  else,  in  fiction.  The  dramatic  Christianity  of  the 
organ  and  aisle,  of  dawn-service  and  twilight-revival — the 
Christianity  which  we  do  not  fear  to  mix  the  mockery  of,  pic- 
torially,  with  our  play  about  the  devil,  in  our  Satanellas, — • 
Roberts, — Fausts,  chanting  hymns  through  traceried  windows 
for  back-ground  effect,  and  artistically  modulating  the  “ Dio” 
through  variation  on  variation  of  mimicked  prayer  : (while  we 
distribute  tracts,  next  day,  for  the  benefit  of  uncultivated 
swearers,  upon  what  we  suppose  to  be  the  signification  of 
the  Third  Commandment  ;) — this  gas-lighted,  and  gas-in- 
spired, Christianity,  we  are  triumphant  in,  and  draw  back 

for  the  journal,  I do  not  let  pass  unnoticed  an  article  in  its  third  num- 
ber, page  5,  which  was  wrong  in  every  word  of  it,  with  the  intense 
wrongness  which  only  an  honest  man  can  achieve  who  has  taken  a false 
turn  of  thought  in  the  outset,  and  is  following  it,  regardless  of  conse- 
quences. It  contained  at  the  end  this  notable  passage : — 

“ The  bread  of  affliction,  and  the  water  of  affliction— aye,  and  the  bed- 
steads and  blankets  of  affliction,  are  the  very  utmost  that  the  law  ought 
to  give  to  outcasts  merely  as  outcasts .”  1 merely  put  beside  this  ex- 

pression of  the  gentlemanly  mind  of  England  in  1865,  a part  of  the 
message  which  Isaiah  was  ordered  to  “lift  up  his  voice  like  a trumpet” 
in  declaring  to  the  gentlemen  of  his  day : “ Ye  fast  for  strife,  and  to 
finite  with  the  fist  of  wickedness.  Is  not  this  the  fast  that  I have 
chosen,  to  deal  thy  bread  to  the  hungry,  and  that  thou  bring  the  poor 
that  are  cast  out  (margin  ‘afflicted’)  to  thy  house.”  The  falsehood  on 
which  the  writer  had  mentally  founded  himself,  as  previously  stated  by 
him,  was  this:  “To  confound  the  functions  of  the  dispensers  of  the 
poor-rates  with  those  of  the  dispensers  of  a charitable  institution  is  a 
great  and  pernicious  error.”  This  sentence  is  so  accurately  and  exqub 
sitely  wrong,  that  its  substance  must  be  thus  reversed  in  our  minds  be* 
fore  we  can  deal  with  any  existing  problem  of  national  distress.  “To 
understand  that  the  dispensers  of  the  poor-rates  are  the  almoners  of  the 
nation,  and  should  distribute  its  alms  with  a gentleness  and  freedom  of 
hand  as  much  greater  and  franker  than  that  possible  to  individual 
charity,  as  the  collective  national  wisdom  and  power  may  be  supposed 
greater  than  those  of  any  single  person,  is  the  foundation  of  all  law  re- 
specting pauperism.” 


38 


SESAME  AND  LILIES . 


the  hem  of  our  robes  from  the  touch  of  the  heretics  who  dis- 
pute it.  But  to  do  a piece  of  common  Christian  righteous- 
ness in  a plain  English  word  or  deed ; to  make  Christian  law 
any  rule  of  life,  and  found  one  National  act  or  hope  thereon, 
— we  know  too  well  what  our  faith  comes  to  for  that ! You 
might  sooner  get  lightning  out  of  incense  smoke  than  trus 
action  or  passion  out  of  your  modern  English  religion.  You 
had  better  get  rid  of  the  smoke,  and  the  organ  pipes,  both  : 
leave  them,  and  the  Gothic  windows,  and  the  painted  glass,  to 
the  property  man  ; give  up  your  carburetted  hydrogen  ghost 
in  one  healthy  expiration,  and  look  after  Lazarus  at  the  door- 
step. For  there  is  a true  Church  wherever  one  hand  meets 
another  helpfully,  and  that  is  the  only  holy  or  Mother  Church 
which  ever  was,  or  ever  shall  be. 

All  these  pleasures,  then,  and  all  these  virtues,  I repeat, 
you  nationally  despise.  You  have,  indeed,  men  among  you 
who  do  not ; by  whose  work,  by  whose  strength,  by  whose 
life,  by  whose  death,  you  live,  and  never  thank  them.  Your 
wealth,  your  amusement,  your  pride,  would  all  be  alike  inr 
possible,  but  for  those  ■whom  you  scorn  or  forget.  The  po- 
liceman, who  is  walking  up  and  down  the  black  lane  all  night 
to  watch  the  guilt  you  have  created  there,  and  may  have  his 
brains  beaten  out  and  be  maimed  for  life  at  any  moment,  and 
never  be  thanked  ; the  sailor  wrestling  with  the  sea’s  rage  ; 
the  quiet  student  poring  over  his  book  or  his  vial ; the  com- 
mon wrorker,  without  praise,  and  nearly  without  bread,  fulfill- 
ing his  task  as  your  horses  drag  your  carts,  hopeless,  and 
spurned  of  all : these  are  the  men  by  wrhom  England  lives ; 
but  they  are  not  the  nation  ; they  are  only  the  body  and 
nervous  force  of  it,  acting  still  from  old  habit  in  a convulsive 
perseverance,  while  the  mind  is  gone.  Our  National  mind 
and  purpose  are  to  be  amused  ; our  National  religion,  the 
performance  of  church  ceremonies,  and  preaching  of  soporific 
truths  (or  untruths)  to  keep  the  mob  quietly  at  work,  while 
we  amuse  ourselves  ; and  the  necessity  for  this  amusement  is 
fastening  on  us  as  a feverous  disease  of  parched  throat  and 
wandering  eyes — senseless,  dissolute,  merciless.  When  men 
are  rightly  occupied,  their  amusement  grows  out  of  their 


OF  KINGS'  TREASURIES. 


69 


work,  as  the  colour-petals  out  of  a fruitful  flower -when 
they  are  faithfully  helpful  and  compassionate,  all  their  emo- 
tions become  steady,  deep,  perpetual,  and  vivifying  to  the 
soul  as  the  natural  pulse  to  the  body.  But  now,  having  no 
true  business,  we  pour  our  whole  masculine  energy  into  the 
false  business  of  money-making  ; and  having  no  true  emo® 
tion,  we  must  have  false  emotions  dressed  up  for  us  to  play 
with,  not  innocently,  as  children  with  dolls,  but  guiltily  and 
darkly,  as  the  idolatrous  Jews  with  their  pictures  on  cavern 
walls,  which  men  had  to  dig  to  detect.  The  justice  we  do 
not  execute,  we  mimic  in  the  novel  and  on  the  stage  ; for  the 
beauty  we  destroy  in  nature,  we  substitute  the  metamorphosis 
of  the  pantomime,  and  (the  human  nature  of  us  imperatively 
requiring  awe  and  sorrow  of  some  kind)  for  the  noble  grief 
we  should  have  borne  with  our  fellows,  and  the  pure  tears 
we  should  have  wept  with  them,  we  gloat  over  the  pathos  of 
the  police  court,  and  gather  the  night- dew  of  the  grave. 

It  is  difficult  to  estimate  the  true  significance  of  these  things  ; 
the  facts  are  frightful  enough  ; — the  measure  of  national  fault 
involved  in  them  is  perhaps  not  as  great  as  it  would  at  first 
seem.  We  permit,  or  cause,  thousands  of  deaths  daily,  but 
we  mean  no  harm  ; we  set  fire  to  houses,  and  ravage  peasants’ 
fields ; yet  we  should  be  sorry  to  find  we  had  injured  any- 
body. We  are  still  kind  at  heart ; still  capable  of  virtue, 
but  only  as  children  are.  Chalmers,  at  the  end  of  his  long 
life,  having  had  much  power  with  the  public,  being  plagued 
in  some  serious  matter  by  a reference  to  “public  opinion,” 
uttered  the  impatient  exclamation,  “ The  public  is  just  a great 
baby  ! ” And  the  reason  that  I have  allowed  all  these  graver 
subjects  of  thought  to  mix  themselves  up  with  an  inquiry  into 
methods  of  reading,  is  that,  the  more  I see  of  our  national 
faults  and  miseries,  the  more  they  resolve  themselves  into 
conditions  of  childish  illiterateness,  and  want  of  education  in 
the  most  ordinary  habits  of  thought.  It  is,  I repeat,  not  vice, 
not  selfishness,  not  dulness  of  brain,  which  we  have  to  lament ; 
but  an  unreachable  schoolboy’s  recklessness,  only  differing 
from  the  true  schoolboy’s  in  its  incapacity  of  being  helped, 
because  it  acknowledges  no  master.  There  is  a curious  typo 
5 


70 


SESAME  AND  LILIES. 


of  us  given  in  one  of  the  lovely,  neglected  works  of  the  last 
of  our  great  painters.  It  is  a drawing  of  Kirkby  Lonsdale 
churchyard,  and  of  its  brook,  and  valley,  and  hills,  and 
folded  morning  sky  beyond.  And  unmindful  alike  of  these, 
and  of  the  dead  who  have  left  these  for  other  valleys  and  for 
other  skies,  a group  of  schoolboys  have  piled  their  little  books 
upon  a grave,  to  strike  them  off  with  stones.  So  do  we  play 
with  the  words  of  the  dead  that  would  teach  us,  and  strike  them 
far  from  us  with  our  bitter,  reckless  will,  little  thinking  that 
those  leaves  which  the  wind  scatters  had  been  piled,  not  only 
upon  a gravestone,  but  upon  the  seal  of  an  enchanted  vault — ■ 
nay,  the  gate  of  a great  city  of  sleeping  kings,  who  would 
awake  for  us,  and  walk  with  us,  if  we  knew  but  how  to  call 
them  by  their  names.  How  often,  even  if  we  lift  the  marble 
entrance  gate,  do  we  but  wander  among  those  old  kings  in 
their  repose,  and  finger  the  robes  they  lie  in,  and  stir  the 
crowns  on  their  foreheads  ; and  still  they  are  silent  to  us,  and 
seem  but  a dusty  imagery  ; because  we  know  not  the  incanta- 
tion of  the  heart  that  would  wake  them  ; — which,  if  they  once 
heard,  they  would  start  up  to  meet  us  in  their  power  of  long 
ago,  narrowly  to  look  upon  us,  and  consider  us  ; and,  as  the 
fallen  kings  of  Hades  meet  the  newly  fallen,  saying,  “ Art  thou 
also  become  weak  as  we — art  thou  also  become  one  of  us?” 
so  would  these  kings,  with  their  undimmed,  unshaken  dia- 
dems,  meet  us,  saying,  “Art  thou  also  become  pure  and 
mighty  of  heart  as  we  ? art  thou  also  become  one  of  us  ? ” 
Mighty  of  heart,  mighty  of  mind — “magnanimous” — to  be 
this,  is  indeed  to  be  great  in  life  ; to  become  this  increasingly, 
is,  indeed,  to  “ advance  in  life,” — in  life  itself — not  in  the 
trappings  of  it.  My  friends,  do  you  remember  that  old 
Scythian  custom,  when  the  head  of  a house  died  ? How  he 
was  dressed  in  his  finest  dress,  and  set  in  his  chariot,  and 
carried  about  to  his  friends’  houses ; and  each  of  them  placed 
him  at  his  table’s  head,  and  all  feasted  in  his  presence  ? Sup- 
pose it  were  offered  to  you,  in  plain  words,  as  it  is  offered  to 
you  in  dire  facts,  that  you  should  gain  this  Scythian  honour, 
gradually,  while  you  yet  thought  yourself  alive.  Suppose  the 
offer  were  this : “ You  shall  die  slowly  ; your  blood  shall  daily 


OF  KINGS’  TREASURIES. 


71 


grow  cold,  your  flesh  petrify,  your  heart  beat  at  last  only  as  a 
rusted  group  of  iron  valves.  Your  life  shall  fade  from  you, 
and  sink  through  the  earth  into  the  ice  of  Caina  ; but,  day  by 
day,  your  body  shall  be  dressed  more  gaily,  and  set  in  higher 
chariots,  and  have  more  orders  on  its  breast — crowns  on  its 
head,  if  you  will.  Men  shall  bow  before  it,  stare  and  shout 
round  it,  crowd  after  it  up  and  down  the  streets  ; build  pal- 
aces for  it,  feast  with  it  at  their  tables’  heads  all  the  night 
long ; your  soul  shall  stay  enough  within  it  to  know  what 
they  do,  and  feel  the  weight  of  the  golden  dress  on  its  shoul- 
ders, and  the  furrow  of  the  crown-edge  on  the  skull ; — no 
more.  Would  you  take  the  offer,  verbally  made  by  the  death- 
angel?  Would  the  meanest  among  us  take  it,  think  you? 
Yet  practically  and  verily  we  grasp  at  it,  every  one  of  us,  in 
a measure  ; many  of  us  grasp  at  it  in  its  fulness  of  horror. 
Every  man  accepts  it,  who  desires  to  advance  in  life  without 
knowing  what  life  is  ; who  means  only  that  he  is  to  get  more 
horses,  and  more  footmen,  and  more  fortune,  and  more  public 
honour,  and — not  more  personal  soul.  He  only  is  advancing 
in  life,  whose  heart  is  getting  softer,  whose  blood  warmer, 
whose  brain  quicker,  whose  spirit  is  entering  into  Living* 
peace.  And  the  men  who  have  this  life  in  them  are  the  true 
lords  or  kings  of  the  earth — they,  and  they  only.  All  other 
kingships,  so  far  as  they  are  true,  are  only  the  practical  issue 
and  expression  of  theirs  ; if  less  than  this,  they  are  either 
dramatic  royalties, — costly  shows,  with  real  jewels  instead  of 
tinsel — the  toys  of  nations  ; or  else,  they  are  no  royalties  at 
all,  but  tyrannies,  or  the  mere  active  and  practical  issue  of 
national  folly  ; for  which  reason  I have  said  of  them  elsewhere, 
“ Visible  governments  are  the  toys  of  some  nations,  the  dis- 
eases of  others,  the  harness  of  some,  the  burdens  of  more.” 
But  I have  no  words  for  the  wonder  with  which  I hear 
Kinghood  still  spoken  of,  even  among  thoughtful  men,  as  if 
governed  nations  were  a personal  property,  and  might  be 
bought  and  sold,  or  otherwise  acquired,  as  sheep,  of  whose 
flesh  their  king  was  to  feed,  and  whose  fleece  he  was  to 
gather  ; as  if  Achilles’  indignant  epithet  of  base  kings,  “ peo- 

* 4*  to  5e  <ppoi/r)fjux  r ov  Tryevjj.aTo<!  /cat 


72 


SESAME  AND  LILIES. 


pie-eating,”  were  the  constant  and  proper  title  of  all  mom 
archs  ; and  enlargement  of  a king’s  dominion  meant  the  same 
thing  as  the  increase  of  a private  man’s  estate  ! Kings  who 
think  so,  however  powerful,  can  no  more  be  the  true  kings  of 
the  nation  than  gad-flies  are  the  kings  of  a horse  ; they  suck 
it,  and  may  drive  it  wild,  but  do  not  guide  it.  They,  and 
their  courts,  and  their  armies  are,  if  one  could  see  clearly, 
only  a large  species  of  marsh  mosquito,  with  bayonet  pro- 
boscis and  melodious,  band-mastered,  trumpeting  in  the  sum- 
mer air  ; the  twilight  being,  perhaps,  sometimes  fairer,  but 
hardly  more  wholesome,  for  its  glittering  mists  of  midge  com- 
panies. The  true  kings,  meanwhile,  rule  quietly,  if  at  all,  and 
hate  ruling  ; too  many  of  them  make  “ il  gran  refiuto  ; ” and 
if  they  do  not,  the  mob,  as  soon  as  they  are  likely  to  become 
useful  to  it,  is  pretty  sure  to  make  its  “ gran  refiuto  ” of  them. 

Yet  the  visible  king  may  also  be  a true  one,  some  day,  if 
ever  day  comes  when  he  will  estimate  his  dominion  by  the 
force  of  it, — not  the  geographical  boundaries.  It  matters 
very  little  whether  Trent  cuts  you  a can  tel  out  here,  or  Rhine 
rounds  you  a castle  less  there.  But  it  does  matter  to  you, 
king  of  men,  whether  you  can  verily  say  to  this  man,  “ Go,” 
and  he  goetli ; and  to  another,  “ Come,”  and  he  cometh. 
Whether  you  can  turn  your  people  as  you  can  Trent— and 
where  it  is  that  you  bid  them  come,  and  where  go.  It  mat- 
ters to  you,  king  of  men,  whether  your  people  hate  you,  and 
die  by  you,  or  love  you,  and  live  by  you.  You  may  measure 
your  dominion  by  multitudes  better  that  by  miles  ; and  count 
degrees  of  love  latitude,  not  from,  but  to,  a wonderfully  warm 
and  infinite  equator.  Measure!  nay  you  cannot  measure.  Who 
shall  measure  the  difference  between  the  power  of  those  who 
“ do  and  teach,”  and  who  are  greatest  in  the  kingdoms  of 
earth,  as  of  heaven — and  the  power  of  those  who  undo,  and 
consume — whose  power,  at  the  fullest,  is  only  the  power  of 
the  moth  and  rust  ? Strange ! to  think  how  the  Moth- 
kings  lay  up  treasures  for  the  moth,  and  the  Rust-kings,  who 
are  to  their  peoples’  strength  as  rust  to  armour,  lay  up  treas- 
ures for  the  rust;  and  the  Robber-kings,  treasures  for  the 
robber  ; but  how  few  kings  have  ever  laid  up  treasures  that 


OF  KINGS*  TREASURIES. 


73 


needed  no  guarding — treasures  of  winch,  the  more  thieves  there 
were,  the  better  ! Broidered  robe,  only  to  be  rent — helm  and 
sword,  only  to  be  dimmed  ; jewel  and  gold,  only  to  be  scat- 
tered—there  have  been  three  kinds  of  kings  who  have  gath- 
ered these.  Suppose  there  ever  should  arise  a Fourth  order 
of  kings,  who  had  read,  in  some  obscure  writing  of  long  ago, 
that  there  was  a Fourth  kind  of  treasure,  which  the  jewel  and 
gold  could  not  equal,  neither  should  it  be  valued  with  pure 
gold.  A web  more  fair  in  the  weaving,  by  Athena’s  shuttle  , 
an  armour,  forged  in  diviner  fire  by  Yulcanian  force — a gold 
only  to  be  mined  in  the  sun’s  red  heart,  where  he  sets  over  the 
Delphian  cliffs  ; — deep-pictured  tissue,  impenetrable  armour, 
potable  gold  ! — the  three  great  Angels  of  Conduct,  Toil,  and 
Thought,  still  calling  to  us,  and  waiting  at  the  posts  of  our 
doors,  to  lead  us,  if  we  would,  with  their  winged  power,  and 
guide  us,  with  their  inescapable  eyes,  by  the  path  which  no 
fowl  knoweth,  and  which  the  vulture’s  eye  has  not  seen  ! Sup- 
pose kings  should  ever  arise,  who  heard  and  believed  this  word, 
and  at  last  gathered  and  brought  forth  treasures  of — Wisdom 
— for  their  people  ? 

Think  what  an  amazing  business  that  would  be  ! How  in- 
conceivable, in  the  state  of  our  present  national  wisdom.  That 
we  should  bring  up  our  peasants  to  a book  exercise  instead  of 
a bayonet  exercise  ! — organize,  drill,  maintain  "with  pay,  and 
good  generalship,  armies  of  thinkers,  instead  of  armies  of 
stabbers  ! — find  national  amusement  in  reading-rooms  as  well 
as  rifle-grounds  ; give  prizes  for  a fair  shot  at  a fact,  as  well  as 
for  a leaden  splash  on  a target.  What  an  absurd  idea  it  seems, 
put  fairly  in  words,  that  the  wealth  of  the  capitalists  of  civil- 
ized nations  should  ever  come  to  support  literature  instead  of 
war ! Have  yet  patience  with  me,  while  I read  you  a single 
sentence  out  of  the  only  book,  properly  to  be  called  a book, 
that  I have  yet  written  myself,  the  one  that  will  stand,  (if  any- 
thing stand, ) surest  and  longest  of  all  work  of  mine, 

“ It  is  one  very  awful  form  of  the  operation  of  wealth  in 
Europe  that  it  is  entirely  capitalists’  wealth  which  supports 
unjust  wars*  Just  wars  do  not  need  so  much  money  to  sup* 


74 


SESAME  AND  LILIES. 


port  them  ; for  most  of  the  men  who  wage  such,  wage  them 
gratis  ; but  for  an  unjust  war,  men’s  bodies  and  souls  have 
both  to  be  bought  ; and  the  best  tools  of  war  for  them  be- 
sides, which  makes  such  war  costly  to  the  maximum  ; not  to 
speak  of  the  cost  of  base  fear,  and  angry  suspicion,  between 
nations  which  have  not  grace  nor  honesty  enough  in  all  their 
.multitudes  to  buy  an  hour’s  peace  of  mind  with  ; as,  at  pres- 
ent France  and  England,  purchasing  of  each  other  ten  mil- 
lions’ sterling  worth  of  consternation,  annually  (a  remarkably 
light  crop,  half  thorns  and  half  aspen  leaves,  sown,  reaped, 
and  granaried  by  the  ‘ science  ’ of  the  modern  political  econo- 
mist, teaching  covetousness  instead  of  truth).  And,  all  un- 
just war  being  supportable,  if  not  by  pillage  of  the  enemy, 
only  by  loans  from  capitalists,  these  loans  are  repaid  by  sub- 
sequent taxation  of  the  people,  who  appear  to  have  no  will  in 
the  matter,  the  capitalists’  will  being  the  primary  root  of  the 
war ; but  its  real  root  is  the  covetousness  of  the  whole  nation, 
rendering  it  incapable  of  faith,  frankness,  or  justice,  and 
bringing  about,  therefore,  in  due  time,  his  own  separate  loss 
and  punishment  to  each  person.” 


France  and  England  literally,  observe,  buy  panic  of  each 
other ; they  pay,  each  of  them,  for  ten  thousand  thousand 
pounds’  worth  of  terror,  a year.  Now  suppose,  instead  of  buy- 
ing these  ten  millions’  worth  of  panic  annually,  they  made  up 
their  minds  to  be  at  peace  with  each  other,  and  buy  ten  mil- 
lions’ worth  of  knowledge  annually  ; and  that  each  nation 
spent  its  ten  thousand  thousand  pounds  a year  in  founding 
royal  libraries,  royal  art  galleries,  royal  museums,  royal  gar- 
dens, and  places  of  rest.  Might  it  not  be  better  somewhat 
for  both  French  and  English  ? 

It  will  be  long,  yet,  before  that  comes  to  pass.  Neverthe- 
less, I hope  it  will  not  be  long  before  royal  or  national  libra- 
ries will  be  founded  in  every  considerable  city,  with  a royal 
series  of  books  in  them  ; the  same  series  in  every  one  of  them, 
chosen  books,  the  best  in  every  kind,  prepared  for  that  na^ 
tional  series  in  the  most  perfect  way  possible  ; their  text 
printed  all  on  leaves  of  equal  size,  broad  of  margin,  and  di- 
vided into  pleasant  volumes,  light  in  the  hand,  beautiful,  and 
strong,  and  thorough  as  examples  of  binders’  work ; and  that 


OF  KINGS'  TREASURIES. 


75 


these  great  libraries  will  be  accessible  to  all  clean  and  orderly 
persons  at  all  times  of  the  day  and  evening  ; strict  law  being 
enforced  for  this  cleanliness  and  quietness. 

I could  shape  for  you  other  plans,  for  art-galleries,  and  for 
natural  history  galleries,  and  for  many  precious,  many,  it 
seems  to  me,  needful,  things  ; but  this  book  plan  is  the  easi- 
est  and  needfullest,  and  would  prove  a considerable  tonic  to 
what  we  call  our  British  constitution,  which  has  fallen  dropsi- 
cal of  late,  and  has  an  evil  thirst,  and  evil  hunger,  and  wants 
healthier  feeding.  You  have  got  its  corn  laws  repealed  for  it ; 
try  if  you  cannot  get  com  laws  established  for  it,  dealing  in  a 
better  bread  ; — bread  made  of  that  old  enchanted  Arabian 
grain,  the  Sesame,  which  opens  doors  ; — doors,  not  of  robbers,-' 
but  of  Kings’  Treasuries. 

Friends,  the  treasuries  of  true  kings  are  the  streets  of  their 
cities ; and  the  gold  they  gather,  which  for  others  is  as  the 
mire  of  the  streets,  changes  itself,  for  them  and  their  people, 
into  a crystalline  pavement  for  evermore. 


LECTURE  II— LILIES. 


of  queens’  gardens. 

45  Be  thovi  glad,  oil  thirsting  Desert  ; let  the  desert  be  made  cheerful, 
and  b^oom  as  the  lily  ; and  the  barren  places  of  Jordan  shall  run  wild 
with  wood.” — Isaiah  35,  i.  (Septuagint ) 

It  will,  perhaps,  be  well,  as  this  Lecture  is  the  sequel  of  one 
previously  given,  that  I should  shortly  state  to  you  my  gen- 
eral intention  in  both.  The  questions  specially  proposed  to 
you  in  the  first,  namely,  How  and  What  to  Read,  rose  out  of 
a far  deeper  one,  which  it  was  my  endeavour  to  make  you 
propose  earnestly  to  yourselves,  namely,  Why  to  Read.  1 
want  you  to  feel,  with  me,  that  whatever  advantages  we  pos- 
sess in  the  present  day  in  the  diffusion  of  education  and  of 
literature,  can  only  be  rightly  used  by  any  of  us  when  we 
have  apprehended  clearly  what  education  is  to  lead  to,  and 
literature  to  teach.  I wish  you  to  see  that  both  well-directed 
moral  training  and  well-chosen  reading  lead  to  the  posses- 
sion of  a power  over  the  ill-guided  and  illiterate,  which  is, 
according  to  the  measure  of  it,  in  the  truest  sense,  Icingly  ; 
conferring  indeed  the  purest  kingship  that  can  exist  among 
men  : too  many  other  kingships  (however  distinguished  by 
visible  insignia  or  material  power)  being  either  spectral,  or 
tyrannous  ; — Spectral — that  is  to  say,  aspects  and  shadows 
only  of  royalty,  hollow  as  death,  and  which  only  the  “ Like- 
ness of  a kingly  crown  have  on  ; ” or  else  tyrannous — that  is 
to  say,  substituting  their  own  will  for  the  law  of  justice  and 
love  by  which  all  true  kings  rule. 

There  is,  then,  I repeat — and  as  I want  to  leave  this  idea 
with  you,  I begin  with  it,  and  shall  end  with  it — only  one 
pure  kind  of  kingship  ; an  inevitable  and  eternal  kind, 
crowned  or  not : the  kingship,  namely,  which  consists  in  a 
stronger  moral  state,  and  a truer  thoughtful  state,  than  that 


OF  QUEENS'  GARDENS. 


77 


of  others  ; enabling  you,  therefore,  to  guide,  or  to  raise  them. 
Observe  that  word  “ State  ; ” we  have  got  into  a loose  way  of 
using  it.  It  means  literally  the  standing  and  stability  of  a 
thing  ; and  you  have  the  full  force  of  it  in  the  derived  word 
“ statue  — “ the  immoveable  thing.”  A king’s  majesty  or 
“ state,”  then,  and  the  right  of  his  kingdom  to  be  called  a 
state,  depends  on  the  movelessness  of  both : — without  tremor, 
without  quiver  of  balance  ; established  and  enthroned  upon 
a foundation  of  eternal  law  which  nothing  can  alter  nor  over- 
throw. 

Believing  that  all  literature  and  all  education  are  only  use- 
ful so  far  as  they  tend  to  confirm  this  calm,  beneficent,  and 
therefore  kingly,  powTer— first,  over  ourselves,  and,  through 
ourselves,  over  all  around  us,  I am  now  going  to  ask  you  to 
consider  with  me  farther,  what  special  portion  or  kind  of 
this  royal  authority,  arising  out  of  noble  education,  may 
rightly  be  possessed  by  women ; and  how  far  they  also  are 
called  to  a true  queenly  power.  Not  in  their  households 
merely,  but  over  all  within  their  sphere.  And  in  what  sense, 
if  they  rightly  understood  and  exercised  this  royal  or  gra- 
cious influence,  the  order  and  beauty  induced  by  such  benig- 
nant power  would  justify  us  in  speaking  of  the  territories 
over  which  each  of  them  reigned,  as  “ Queens’  Gardens.” 

And  here,  in  the  very  outset,  we  are  met  by  a far  deeper 
question,  which — strange  though  this  may  seem — remains 
among  many  of  us  yet  quite  undecided,  in  spite  of  its  infinite 
importance. 

We  cannot  determine  what  the  queenly  power  of  women 
should  be,  until  we  are  agreed  what  their  ordinary  power 
should  be.  We  cannot  consider  how  education  may  fit  them 
for  any  widely  extending  duty,  until  we  are  agreed  what  is 
their  true  constant  duty.  And  there  never  was  a time  when 
wilder  words  were  spoken,  or  more  vain  imagination  per- 
! mitted,  respecting  this  question — quite  vital  to  all  social  hap- 
piness. The  relations  of  the  womanly  to  the  manly  nature, 

I their  different  capacities  of  intellect  or  of  virtue,  seem  never 
to  have  been  yet  measured  with  entire  consent.  We  hear  of 
the  mission  and  of  the  rights  of  Woman,  as  if  these  could 


78 


SESAME  AND  LILIES. 


ever  be  separate  from  the  mission  and  the  rights  of  Man 
as  if  she  and  her  lord  were  creatures  of  independent  kind 
and  of  irreconcileable  claim.  This,  at  least,  is  wrong.  And 
not  less  wrong — perhaps  even  more  foolishly  wrong  (for  1 
will  anticipate  thus  far  what  I hope  to  prove) — is  the  idea 
that  woman  is  only  the  shadow  and  attendant  image  of  her 
lord,  owing  him  a thoughtless  and  servile  obedience,  and  sup- 
ported altogether  in  her  weakness  by  the  pre-eminence  of  his 
fortitude. 

This,  I say,  is  the  most  foolish  of  all  errors  respecting  her 
who  was  made  to  be  the  helpmate  of  man.  As  if  he  could  be 
helped  effectively  by  a shadow,  or  worthily  by  a slave  ! 

Let  us  try,  then,  whether  we  cannot  get  at  some  clear  and 
harmonious  idea  (it  must  be  harmonious  if  it  is  true)  of  wThat 
womanly  mind  and  virtue  are  in  power  and  office,  with  re- 
spect to  man’s ; and  how  their  relations,  rightly  accepted, 
aid,  and  increase,  the  vigour,  and  honour,  and  authority  ol 
both. 

And  now  I must  repeat  one  thing  I said  in  the  last  lecture 
namely,  that  the  first  use  of  education  was  to  enable  us  to 
consult  with  the  wisest  and  the  greatest  men  on  all  points  oi 
earnest  difficulty.  That  to  use  books  rightly,  was  to  go  to 
them  for  help  : to  appeal  to  them,  when  our  own  knowledge 
and  power  of  thought  failed ; to  be  led  by  them  into  wider 
sight,  purer  conception  than  our  own,  and  receive  from  them 
the  united  sentence  of  the  judges  and  councils  of  all  time, 
against  our  solitary  and  unstable  opinion. 

Let  us  do  this  now.  Let  us  see  whether  the  greatest,  the 
wisest,  the  purest-hearted  of  all  ages  are  agreed  in  any  wise 
on  this  point : let  us  hear  the  testimony  they  have  left  respect- 
ing what  they  held  to  be  the  true  dignity  of  woman,  and  her 
mode  of  help  to  man. 

And  first  let  us  take  Shakespeare. 

Note  broadly  in  the  outset,  Shakespeare  has  no  heroes  ; — 
he  has  only  heroines.  There  is  not  one  entirely  heroic  figure 
in  all  his  plays,  except  the  slight  sketch  of  Henry  the  Fifth, 
exaggerated  for  the  purposes  of  the  stage  ; and  the  still  slighter 
Valentine  in  The  Two  Gentlemen  of  Verona.  In  his  laboured 


OF  QUEENS'  GARDENS, 


79 


and  perfect  plays  yon  have  no  liero.  Othello  would  have  been 
one,  if  his  simplicity  had  not  been  so  great  as  to  leave  him 
the  prey  of  every  base  practice  round  him  ; but  he  is  the  only 
example  even  approximating  to  the  heroic  type.  Coriolanus 
— Caesar — Antony,  stand  in  hawed  strength,  and  fall  by  their 
vanities ; — Hamlet  is  indolent,  and  drowsily  speculative  % 
Romeo  an  impatient  boy  ; the  Merchant  of  Venice  languidly 
submissive  to  adverse  fortune  ; Kent,  in  King  Lear,  is  en- 
tirely noble  at  heart,  but  too  rough  and  unpolished  to  be  of 
true  use  at  the  critical  time,  and  he  sinks  into  the  office  of  a 
servant  only.  Orlando,  no  less  noble,  is  yet  the  despairing  toy 
of  chance,  followed,  comforted,  saved,  by  Rosalind.  Whereas 
there  is  hardly  a play  that  has  not  a perfect  woman  in  it,  stead, 
fast  in  grave  hope,  and  errorless  purpose  ; Cordelia,  Desde. 
lnona,  Isabella,  Hermione,  Imogen,  Queen  Katherine,  Perdita, 
Sylvia,  Viola,  Rosalind,  Helena,  and  last,  and  perhaps  loveli- 
est, Virgilia,  are  all  faultless  ; conceived  in  the  highest  heroid 
type  of  humanity. 

Then  observe,  secondly, 

The  catastrophe  of  every  play  is  caused  always  by  the  folly 
or  fault  of  a man  ; the  redemption,  if  there  be  any,  is  by  the 
wisdom  and  virtue  of  a woman,  and  failing  that,  there  is  none. 
The  catastrophe  of  King  Lear  is  owing  to  his  own  want  of 
judgment,  his  impatient  vanity,  his  misunderstanding  of  his 
children  ; the  virtue  of  his  one  true  daughter  would  have  saved 
him  from  all  the  injuries  of  the  others,  unless  he  had  cast  her 
away  from  him  ; as  it  is,  she  all  but  saves  him. 

Of  Othello  I need  not  trace  the  tale  ; — nor  the  one  weak- 
ness of  his  so  mighty  love  ; nor  the  inferiority  of  his  percep- 
tive intellect  to  that  even  of  the  second  woman  character  in 
the  play,  the  Emilia  who  dies  in  wild  testimonj"  against  his 
error  : — “ Oh,  murderous  coxcomb  ! What  should  such  a fool 
Bo  with  so  good  a wife  ? ” 

In  Romeo  and  Juliet,  the  wise  and  entirely  brave  stratagem 
of  the  wife  is  brought  to  ruinous  issue  by  the  reckless  impa- 
tience of  her  husband.  In  Winter’s  Tale,  and  in  Cymbeline, 
the  happiness  and  existence  of  two  princely  households,  lost 
through  long  years,  and  imperilled  to  the  death  by  the  folly 


80 


SESAME  AND  LILIES. 


and  obstinacy  of  the  husbands,  are  redeemed  at  last  by  the 
queenly  patience  and  wisdom  of  the  wives.  In  Measure  to* 
Measure,  the  injustice  of  the  judges,  and  the  corrupt  cowar- 
dice of  the  brother,  are  opposed  to  the  victorious  truth  and 
adamantine  purity  of  a woman.  In  Coriolanus,  the  mother’s 
counsel,  acted  upon  in  time,  would  have  saved  her  son  from 
all  evil ; his  momentary  forgetfulness  of  it  is  his  ruin  ; her 
prayer  at  last  granted,  saves  him — not,  indeed,  from  death 
but  from  the  curse  of  living  as  the  destroyer  of  his  country. 

And  what  shall  I say  of  Julia,  constant  against  the  fickle= 
ness  of  a lover  who  is  a mere  wicked  child  ? — of  Helena,  against 
the  petulance  and  insult  of  a careless  youth? — of  the  patience 
of  Hero,  the  passion  of  Beatrice,  and  the  calmly  devoted  wis- 
dom of  the  “ unlessoned  girl,”  who  appears  among  the  help- 
lessness, the  blindness,  and  the  vindictive  passions  of  men, 
as  a gentle  angel,  to  save  merely  by  her  presence,  and  defeat 
the  worst  intensities  of  crime  by  her  smile? 

Observe,  further,  among  all  the  principal  figures  in  Shake- 
speare’s plays,  there  is  only  one  weak  woman — Ophelia  ; and 
it  is  because  she  fails  Hamlet  at  the  critical  moment,  and  is 
not,  and  cannot  in  her  nature  be,  a guide  to  him  whep  he 
needs  her  most,  that  all  the  bitter  catastrophe  follows.  Fi- 
nally, though  there  are  three  wicked  women  among  the  prin- 
cipal figures,  Lady  Macbeth,  Regan,  and  Goneril,  they  are  felt 
at  once  to  be  frightful  exceptions  to  the  ordinary  laws  of  life  ; 
fatal  in  their  influence  also  in  proportion  to  the  power  for  good 
which  they  have  abandoned. 

Such,  in  broad  light,  is  Shakespeare’s  testimony  to  the  posi- 
tion and  character  of  women  in  human  life.  He  represents 
them  as  infallibly  faithful  and  w7ise  counsellors, — incorrupt- 
ibly  just  and  pure  examples — strong  always  to  sanctify,  even 
when  they  cannot  save. 

Not  as  in  ail}7  wise  comparable  in  knowledge  of  the  nature 
of  man, — still  less  in  his  understanding  of  the  causes  and 
courses  of  fate, — but  only  as  the  writer  who  has  given  us  the 
broadest  view  of  the  conditions  and  modes  of  ordinary  thought 
in  modern  society,  I ask  you  next  to  receive  the  witness  oi 
Walter  Scott. 


OF  QUEENS'  GARDENS. 


81 


1 put  aside  bis  merely  romantic  prose  writings  as  of  no 
value  : and  though  the  early  romantic  poetry  is  very  beautiful, 
its  testimony  is  of  no  weight,  other  than  that  of  a boy's  ideal 
But  his  true  works,  studied  from  Scottish  life,  bear  a true 
witness,  and  in  the  whole  range  of  these  there  are  but  three 
men  who  reach  the  heroic  type  * — Dandie  Dinmont,  Bol>  Roy, 
and  Claverhouse  : of  these,  one  is  a border  farmer ; another 
a freebooter  ; the  third  a soldier  in  a bad  cause.  And  these 
touch  the  ideal  of  heroism  only  in  their  courage  and  faith, 
together  with  a strong,  but  uncultivated,  or  mistakenly  ap- 
plied, intellectual  power  ; while  his  younger  men  are  the  gen- 
tlemanly playthings  of  fantastic  fortune,  and  only  by  aid  (or 
accident)  of  that  fortune,  survive,  not  vanquish,  the  trials  they 
involuntarily  sustain.  Of  any  disciplined,  or  consistent  char- 
acter, earnest  in  a purpose  wisely  conceived,  or  dealing  with 
forms  of  hostile  evil,  definitely  challenged,  and  resolutely  sub- 
dued, there  is  no  trace  in  his  conceptions  of  men.  Whereas 
in  his  imaginations  of  women, — in  the  characters  of  Ellen 
Douglas,  of  Flora  Maclvor,  Rose  Bradwardine,  Catherine  Sey- 
ton,  Diana  Vernon,  Lilias  Redgauntlet,  Alice  Bridgenorth, 
Alice  Lee,  and  Jeanie  Deans, — with  endless  varieties  of  grace, 
tenderness,  and  intellectual  power  we  find  in  all  a quite  in- 
fallible and  inevitable  sense  of  dignity  and  justice  ; a fearless, 
instant,  and  untiring  self-sacrifice  to  even  the  appearance  of 
duty,  much  more  to  its  real  claims  ; and,  finally,  a patient  wis- 
dom of  deeply  restrained  affection,  which  does  infinitely  more 
than  protect  its  objects  from  a momentary  error  ; it  gradually 
forms,  animates,  and  exalts  the  characters  of  the  unworthy 
lovers,  until,  at  the  close  of  the  tale,  we  are  just  able,  and  no 
more,  to  take  patience  in  hearing  of  their  unmerited  success. 

* I ought,  in  order  to  make  this  assertion  fully  understood,  to  have 
noted  the  various  weaknesses  which  lower  the  ideal  of  other  great  char- 
acters of  men  in  the  Waverley  novels — the  selfishness  and  narrowness  of 
thought  in  Redgauntlet,  the  weak  religious  enthusiasm  in  Edward  Glen- 
denning,  and  the  like  ; and  I ought  to  have  noticed  that  there  are  sev. 
| eral  quite  perfect  characters  sketched  sometimes  in  the  backgrounds : 
three — let  us  accept  joyously  this  courtesy  to  England  and  her  soldiers 
—are  English  officers : Colonel  Gardiner,  Colonel  Talbot,  and  Colonel 
Mannering. 


82 


SESAME  AND  LILIES. 


So  that  in  all  cases,  with  Scott  as  with  Shakespeare,  it  is  the 
woman  who  watches  over,  teaches,  and  guides  the  youth  ; it  is 
never,  by  any  chance,  the  youth  who  watches  over  or  educates 
his  mistress. 

Next,  take,  though  more  briefly,  graver  and  deeper  testi- 
mony— that  of  the  great  Italians  and  Greeks.  You  know  well 
the  plan  of  Dante’s  great  poem — that  it  is  a love-poem  to  his 
dead  lady,  a song  of  praise  for  her  watch  over  his  soul.  Stoop- 
ing only  to  pity,  never  to  love,  she  yet  saves  him  from  de- 
struction— saves  him  from  hell.  He  is  going  eternally  astray 
in  despair  ; she  comes  down  from  heaven  to  his  help,  and 
throughout  the  ascents  of  Paradise  is  his  teacher,  interpreting 
for  him  the  most  difficult  truths,  divine  and  human,  and  lead- 
ing him,  with  rebuke  upon  rebuke,  from  star  to  star. 

I do  not  insist  upon  Dante’s  conception  ; if  I began  I could 
not  cease  : besides,  you  might  think  this  a wild  imagination 
of  one  poet’s  heart.  So  I will  rather  read  to  you  a few  versos 
of  the  deliberate  writing  of  a knight  of  Pisa  to  his  living  lady, 
wholly  characteristic  of  the  feeling  of  all  the  noblest  men  of 
the  thirteenth  century,  preserved  among  many  other  such  rec- 
ords of  knightly  honour  and  love,  which  Dante  Rossetti  hai 
gathered  for  us  from  among  the  early  Italian  poets. 

For  lo  ! thy  law  is  passed 
That  this  my  love  should  manifestly  he 
To  serve  and  honour  thee : 

And  so  I do  ; and  my  delight  is  full, 

Accepted  for  the  servant  of  thy  rule. 

Without  almost,  I am  all  rapturous, 

Since  thus  my  will  was  set 
To  serve,  thou  flower  of  joy,  thine  excellence  i 
Nor  ever  seems  it  anything  could  rouse 
A pain  or  regret, 

But  on  thee  dwells  mine  every  thought  and  sense : 
Considemig  that  from  thee  all  virtues  spread 
As  from  a fountain  head, — 

That  in  thy  gift  is  wisdom's  best  avail , 

And  honour  without  fail  ; 

With  whom  each  sovereign  good  dwells  separate? 
Fulfilling  the  perfection  of  thy  state 


OF  QUEENS1  GARDENS. 


S3 


Lad y,  since  I conceived 
Thy  pleasurable  aspect  in  my  heart, 

My  lif«  has  been  apart 
In  shining  brightness  and  the  place  of  truth ; 

Which  till  that  time,  good  sooth, 

Groped  among  shadows  in  a darken’d  place, 

Where  many  hours  and  days 
It  hardly  ever  had  remember’d  good. 

But  now  my  servitude 
Is  thine,  and  I am  full  of  joy  and  rest. 

A man  from  a wild  beast 
Thou  madest  me,  since  for  thy  love  I lived. 

You  may  think,  perhaps,  a Greek  knight  would  have  had  a 
lower  estimate  of  women  than  this  Christian  lover.  His  own 
spiritual  subjection  to  them  was  indeed  not  so  absolute  ; but 
as  regards  their  own  personal  character,  it  was  only  because 
you  could  not  have  followed  me  so  easily,  that  I did  not  take 
the  Greek  women  instead  of  Shakespeare’s  ; and  instance,  for 
thief  ideal  types  of  human  beauty  and  faith,  the  simple  moth- 
er’s and  wife’s  heart  of  Andromache  ; the  divine,  yet  rejected 
wisdom  of  Cassandra  ; the  playful  kindness  and  simple  prin- 
cess-life of  happy  Nausicaa ; the  housewifely  calm  of  that  of 
Penelope,  with  its  watch  upon  the  sea  ; the  ever  patient,  fear- 
less, hopelessly  devoted  piety  of  the  sister,  and  daughter,  in 
Antigone  ; the  bowing  down  of  Iphigenia,  lamb-like  and  si- 
lent ; and,  finally,  the  expectation  of  the  resurrection,  made 
clear  to  the  soul  of  the  Greeks  in  the  return  from  her  grave 
of  that  Alcestis,  who,  to  save  her  husband,  had  passed  calmly 
through  the  bitterness  of  death. 

Now  I could  multiply  witness  upon  witness  of  this  kind 
upon  you  if  I had  time.  I would  take  Chaucer,  and  show 
you  why  he  wrote  a Legend  of  Good  Women  ; but  no  Legend 
of  Good  Men.  I would  take  Spenser,  and  show  you  how  all 
his  fairy  knights  are  sometimes  deceived  and  sometimes  van- 
quished ; but  the  soul  of  Una  is  never  darkened,  and  the 
spear  of  Britomart  is  never  broken.  Nay,  I could  go  back 
into  the  mythical  teaching  of  the  most  ancient  times,  and 
show  you  how  the  great  people, — by  one  of  whose  princesses 
it  was  appointed  that  the  Lawgiver  of  all  the  earth  should  be 


84 


SESAME  AND  LILIES. 


educated,  rather  than  by  his  own  kindred  ; — how  that  great 
Egyptian  people,  wisest  then  of  nations,  gave  to  their  Spirit 
of  Wisdom  the  form  of  a woman  ; and  into  her  hand,  for  a 
symbol,  the  weaver’s  shuttle  : and  how  the  name  and  the 
form  of  that  spirit,  adopted,  believed,  and  obeyed  by  the 
Greeks,  became  that  Athena  of  the  olive-helm,  and  cloud} 
shield,  to  whose  faith  you  owe,  down  to  this  date,  whatever 
you  hold  most  precions  in  art,  in  literature,  or  in  types  of  na- 
tional virtue. 

But  I will  not  wander  into  this  distant  and  mythical  ele- 
ment ; I wall  only  ask  you  to  give  its  legitimate  value  to  the 
testimony  of  these  great  poets  and  men  of  the  world, — con- 
sistent as  you  see  it  is  on  this  head.  I will  ask  you  Avhetlier 
it  can  be  supposed  that  these  men,  in  the  main  work  of  their 
lives,  are  amusing  themselves  writh  a fictitious  and  idle  view 
of  the  relations  between  man  and  woman  ; — nay,  wmrse  than 
fictitious  or  idle  ; for  a thing  may  be  imaginary,  yet  desirable, 
if  it  were  possible  ; but  this,  their  ideal  of  women,  is,  accord- 
ing to  our  common  idea  of  the  marriage  relation,  wholly  un- 
desirable. The  Avoman,  we  say,  is  not  to  guide,  nor  even  to 
think,  for  herself.  The  man  is  always  to  be  the  wiser  ; he  is 
to  be  the  thinker,  the  ruler,  the  superior  in  knowledge  and 
discretion,  as  in  power.  Is  it  not  someAvhat  important  to 
make  up  our  minds  on  this  matter  ? Are  all  these  great  men 
mistaken,  or  are  we  ? Are  Shakespeare  and  Aeschylus,  Dante 
and  Homer,  merely  dressing  dolls  for  us  ; or,  Avorse  than 
dolls,  unnatural  visions,  the  realization  of  which,  Avere  it  pos- 
sible, wTould  bring  anarchy  into  all  households  and  ruin  into 
all  affections  ? Nay,  if  you  could  suppose  this,  take  lastly  the 
evidence  of  facts,  given  by  the  human  heart  itself.  In  all 
Christian  ages  Avhich  have  been  remarkable  for  their  purity 
or  progress,  there  has  been  absolute  yielding  of  obedient  de- 
votion, by  the  lover,  to  his  mistress.  I say  obedient— not 
merely  enthusiastic  and  worshipping  in  imagination,  but  en- 
tirely subject,  receiving  from  the  beloved  woman,  however 
young,  not  only  the  encouragement,  the  praise,  and  the  re- 
ward of  all  toil,  but  so  far  as  any  choice  is  open,  or  any  ques- 
tion difficult  of  decision,  the  direction  of  all  toil.  That  ehi^- 


OF  QUEENS'  GARDENS. 


85 


airy,  to  the  abuse  and  dishonour  of  which  are  attributable 
primarily  whatever  is  cruel  in  war,  unjust  in  peace,  or  cor*’ 
rupt  and  ignoble  in  domestic  relations  ; and  to  the  original 
purity  and  power  of  which  we  owe  the  defence  alike  of  faith, 
of  law,  and  of  love  ; — that  chivalry,  I say,  in  its  very  first  con- 
ception of  honourable  life,  assumes  the  subjection  of  the  young 
knight  to  the  command — should  it  even  be  the  command  in 
caprice — of  his  lady.  It  assumes  this,  because  its  masters  knew 
that  the  first  and  necessary  impulse  of  every  truly  taught  and 
knightly  heart  is  this  of  blind  service  to  its  lady  ; that  where 
that  true  faitli  and  captivity  are  not,  all  wayward  and  wicked 
passions  must  be  ; and  that  in  this  rapturous  obedience  to  the 
single  love  of  his  youth,  is  the  sanctification  of  all  man’s 
strength,  and  the  continuance  of  all  his  purposes.  And  this, 
not  because  such  obedience  would  be  safe,  or  honourable, 
were  it  ever  rendered  to  the  unworthy  ; but  because  it  ought 
to  be  impossible  for  every  noble  youth— it  is  impossible  for 
every  one  rightly  trained — to  love  any  one  whose  gentle  coun- 
sel he  cannot  trust,  or  whose  prayerful  command  he  can  hes- 
itate to  obey. 

I do  not  insist  by  any  farther  argument  on  this,  for  I think 
it  should  commend  itself  at  once  to  your  knowledge  of  what 
has  been  and  to  your  feelings  of  what  should  be.  You  cannot 
think  that  the  buckling  on  of  the  knight’s  armour  by  his  lady’s 
hand  was  a mere  caprice  of  romantic  fashion.  It  is  the  type 
of  au  eternal  truth — that  the  soul’s  armour  is  never  well  set  to 
the  heart  unless  a woman’s  hand  has  braced  it ; and  it  is  only 
when  she  braces  it  loosely  that  the  honour  of  manhood  fails, 
Know  you  not  those  lovely  lines— I would  they  were  learned 
by  all  youthful  ladies  of  England  : — 

“ All,  wasteful  woman  ! — slie  who  may 
On  her  sweet  self  set  her  own  price, 

Knowing  he  cannot  choose  hut  pay— 

How  has  she  cheapen’d  Paradise  ! 

How  given  for  nought  her  priceless  gift, 

How  spoiled  the  bread  and  spill’d  the  win*, 

Which,  spent  with  due,  respective  thrift, 

Had  made  brutes  men,  and  men  divine!  * * 

* Coventry  Patmora. 

P 


86 


SESAME  AND  LILIES . 


This  much,  then,  respecting  the  relations  of  lovers  I believe 
you  will  accept.  But  what  we  too  often  doubt  is  the  fitness 
of  the  continuance  of  such  a relation  throughout  the  whole  oi 
human  life.  We  think  it  right  in  the  lover  and  mistress,  not 
in  the  husband  and  wife.  That  is  to  say,  we  think  that  a 
reverent  and  tender  duty  is  due  to  one  whose  affection  we  still 
doubt,  and  whose  character  we  as  yet  do  but  partially  and 
distantly  discern  ; and  that  this  reverence  and  duty  are  to  be 
withdrawn  when  the  affection  has  become  wholly  and  limit- 
lessly  our  own,  and  the  character  has  been  so  sifted  and  tried 
that  we  fear  not  to  entrust  it  with  the  happiness  of  our  lives. 
Do  you  not  see  how  ignoble  this  is,  as  well  as  how  unreasona- 
ble ? Do  you  not  feel  that  marriage — when  it  is  marriage  at 
all, — is  only  the  seal  which  marks  the  vowed  transition  of 
temporary  into  untiring  service,  and  of  fitful  into  eternal 
love  ? 

But  how,  you  will  ask,  is  the  idea  of  this  guiding  function 
of  the  woman  reconcileable  with  a true  wifely  subjection ? 
Simply  in  that  it  is  a guiding , not  a determining,  function 
Let  me  try  to  show  you  briefly  how  these  powers  seem  to  be 
rightly  distinguishable. 

We  are  foolish,  and  without  excuse  foolish,  in  speaking  of 
the  “ superiority  ” of  one  sex  to  the  other,  as  if  they  could  be 
compared  in  similar  things.  Each  has  what  the  other  has 
not : each  completes  the  other,  and  is  completed  by  the 
other  : they  are  in  nothing  alike,  and  the  happiness  and  per- 
fection of  both  depends  on  each  asking  and  receiving  from 
the  other  what  the  other  only  can  give. 

Now  their  separate  characters  are  briefly  these.  The  man’s 
power  is  active,  progressive,  defensive.  He  is  eminently  the 
doer,  the  creator,  the  discoverer,  the  defender.  His  intellect 
is  for  speculation  and  invention  ; his  energy  for  adventure,  foi 
war,  and  for  conquest,  wherever  war  is  just,  wherever  con- 
quest necessary.  But  the  woman’s  power  is  for  rule,  not  for 
battle, — and  her  intellect  is  not  for  invention  or  creation,  but 
for  sweet  ordering,  arrangement  and  decision.  She  sees  the 
qualities  of  things,  their  claim*  and  their  places.  Her  great 
function  is  Praise ; she  enters  into  no  contest,  but  infallibly 


OF  QUEENS'  • GAMJ1BN8. 


87 


judges  the  crown  of  contest.  By  her  office,  and  place,  she  is 
protected  from  all  danger  and  temptation.  The  man,  in  his 
rough  work  in  open  world,  must  encounter  all  peril  and  trial : 
— to  him,  therefore,  the  failure,  the  offence,  the  inevitable 
error : often  he  must  be  wounded,  or  subdued,  often  misled, 
and  always  hardened.  But  he  guards  the  woman  from  all  this  ; 
within  his  house,  as  ruled  by  her,  unless  she  herself  has  sought 
it,  need  enter  no  danger,  no  temptation,  no  cause  of  error  or 
offence.  This  is  the  true  nature  of  home — it  is  the  place  of 
Peace  ; the  shelter,  not  only  from  all  injury,  but  from  all  ter- 
ror,  doubt,  and  division.  In  so  far  as  it  is  not  this,  it  is  not 
home  : so  far  as  the  anxieties  of  the  outer  life  penetrate  into 
it,  and  the  inconsistently-minded,  unknown,  unloved,  or  hostile 
society  of  the  outer  world  is  allowed  by  either  husband  or 
wife  to  cross  the  threshold,  it  ceases  to  be  home  ; it  is  then 
only  a part  of  that  outer  world  which  you  have  roofed  over, 
and  lighted  fire  in.  But  so  far  as  it  is  a sacred  place,  a vestai 
temple,  a temple  of  the  hearth  watched  over  by  Household 
Gods,  before  wThose  faces  none  may  come  but  those  whom 
they  can  receive  with  love, — so  far  as  it  is  this,  and  roof"  and 
fire  are  types  only  of  a nobler  shade  and  light,  — shade  as  of 
the  rock  in  a weary  land,  and  light  as  of  the  Pharos  in  the 
stormy  sea ; — so  far  it  vindicates  the  name,  and  fulfils  the 
praise,  of  home. 

And  wherever  a true  wife  comes,  this  home  is  always  round 
her.  The  stars  only  may  be  over  her  head  ; the  glow-worm 
in  the  night-cold  grass  may  be  the  only  fire  at  her  foot : but 
home  is  yet  wherever  she  is ; and  for  a noble  woman  it 
stretches  far  round  her,  better  than  ceiled  with  cedar,  or 
painted  with  vermilion,  shedding  its  quiet  light  far,  for  those 
who  else  were  homeless. 

This,  then,  I believe  to  be, — will  you  not  admit  it  to  be,— 
the  woman’s  true  place  and  power?  But  do  not  you  see  that 
to  fulfil  this,  she  must— as  far  as  one  can  use  such  terms  of  a 
human  creature — be  incapable  of  error  ? So  far  as  she  rules, 
all  must  be  right,  or  nothing  is.  She  must  be  enduringly, 
incorruptibly  good ; instinctively,  infallibly  wise — wise,  not 
for  self-development,  but  for  self-renunciation  : wise,  not  tha» 


88 


SESAME  AND  LILIES. 


she  may  set  herself  above  her  husband,  bat  that  she  mal 
never  fail  from  his  side  : wise,  not  with  the  narrowness  of  in* 
solent  and  loveless  pride,  but  with  the  passionate  gentleness 
of  an  infinitely  variable,  because  infinitely  applicable,  modesty 
of  service — the  true  changefulness  of  woman.  In  that  great 
sense — “La  donna  e mobile,”  not  “Qual  piiim’  al  vento  no, 
nor  yet  “ Variable  as  the  shade,  by  the  light  quivering  aspen 
made  ; ” but  variable  as  the  light , manifold  in  fair  and  serene 
division,  that  it  may  take  the  color  of  all  that  it  falls  upon, 
and  exalt  it. 

II.  I have  been  trying,  thus  far,  to  show  you  what  should 
be  the  place,  and  what  the  power  of  woman.  Now,  secondly, 
we  ask,  What  kind  of  education  is  to  fit  her  for  these  ? 

And  if  you  indeed  think  this  a true  conception  of  her  office 
and  dignity,  it  will  not  be  difficult  to  trace  the  course  of  edu- 
cation which  would  fit  her  for  the  one,  and  raise  her  to  the 
other. 

The  first  of  our  duties  to  her — no  thoughtful  persons  now 
doubt  this,— is  to  secure  for  her  such  physical  training  and 
exercise  as  may  confirm  her  health,  and  perfect  her  beauty, 
the  highest  refinement  of  that  beauty  being  unattainable  with- 
out splendor  of  activity  and  of  delicate  strength.  To  perfect 
her  beauty,  I say,  and  increase  its  power  ; it  cannot  be  too 
powerful,  nor  shed  its  sacred  light  too  far : only  remember 
that  all  physical  freedom  is  vain  to  produce  beauty  without  a 
corresponding  freedom  of  heart.  There  are  two  passages  of 
that  poet  who  is  distinguished,  it  seems  to  me,  from  all  others 
—not  by  power,  but  by  exquisite  rightness— which  point  you 
to  the  source,  and  describe  to  you,  in  a few  syllables,  the  com* 
pletion  of  womanly  beauty.  I will  read  the  introductory  stan- 
zas, but  the  last  is  the  one  I wish  you  specially  to  notice  ; 

“ Three  years  she  grew  in  snn  and  shower, 

Then  Nature  said,  a lovelier  flower 
On  earth  was  never  sown. 

This  child  I to  myself  will  take  ; 

She  shall  be  mine,  and  I will  make 
A lady  of  my  own. 


OF  QUEENS'  GARDENS. 


50 


“ Myself  will  to  my  darling  be 
Both  law  and  impulse  ; and  with  me 
The  girl,  in  rock  and  plain, 

In  earth  and  heaven,  in  glade  and  bow©?. 

Shall  feel  an  overseeing  power 
To  kindle,  or  restrain. 

“ The  floating  clouds  their  state  shall  lend 
To  her,  for  her  the  willow  bend  ; 

Nor  shall  she  fail  to  see 
Even  in  the  motions  of  the  storm, 

Grace  that  shall  mould  the  maiden’s  form 
By  silent  sympathy. 

“ And  vital  feelings  of  delight 
Shall  rear  her  form  to  stately  height, — 

Her  virgin  bosom  swell. 

Such  thoughts  to  Lucy  I will  give, 

While  she  and  I together  live, 

Here  in  this  happy  dell.” 

“ Vital  feelings  of  delight,”  observe.  There  are  deadly  feel- 
ings of  delight ; but  the  natural  ones  are  vital,  necessary  to 
very  life. 

And  they  must  be  feelings  of  delight,  if  they  are  to  be  vital. 
Do  not  think  you  can  make  a girl  lovely,  if  you  do  not  make 
her  happy.  There  is  not  one  restraint  you  put  on  a good 
girl’s  nature — there  is  not  one  check  you  give  to  her  instincts 
of  affection  or  of  effort — which  will  not  be  indelibly  written 
on  her  features,  with  a hardness  which  is  all  the  more  painful 
because  it  takes  away  the  brightness  from  the  eyes  of  inno- 
cence, and  the  charm  from  the  brow  of  virtue. 

This  for  the  means : now  note  the  end.  Take  from  the 
same  poet,  in  two  lines,  a perfect  description  of  womanly 
beauty— 

“ A countenance  in  which  did  meet 
Sweet  records,  promises  as  sweet.” 

The  perfect  loveliness  of  a woman’s  countenance  can  only 
consist  in  that  majestic  peace,  which  is  founded  in  the  mem- 
ory of  happy  and  useful  years, — full  of  sweet  records ; and 


90  SESAME  AND  LILIES. 

from  the  joining  of  this  with  that  yet  more  majestic  childish 
ness,  which  is  still  full  of  change  and  promise  ;• — opening 
always — modest  at  once,  and  bright,  with  hope  of  better 
things  to  be  won,  and  to  be  bestowed.  There  is  no  old  age 
where  there  is  still  that  promise— it  is  eternal  youth. 

Thus,  then,  you  have  first  to  mould  her  physical  frame,  and 
then,  as  the  strength  she  gains  will  permit  you,  to  fill  and' 
temper  her  mind  with  all  knowledge  and  thoughts  which  tend 
to  confirm  its  natural  instincts  of  justice,  and  refine  its  natural 
tact  of  love. 

All  such  knowledge  should  be  given  her  as  may  enable 
her  to  understand,  and  even  to  aid,  the  work  of  men  : and 
yet  it  should  be  given,  not  as  knowledge, — not  as  if  it  were, 
or  could  be,  for  her  an  object  to  know  ; but  only  to  feel,  and 
to  judge.  It  is  of  no  moment,  as  a matter  of  pride  or  perfect- 
ness in  herself,  whether  she  knows  many  languages  or  one  ; but 
it  is  of  the  utmost,  that  she  should  be  able  to  show  kindness 
to  a stranger,  and  to  understand  the  sweetness  of  a stranger’s 
tongue.  It  is  of  no  moment  to  her  own  worth  or  dignity  that 
she  should  be  acquainted  with  this  science  or  that ; but  it 
is  of  the  highest  that  she  should  be  trained  in  habits  of  ac- 
curate thought  ; that  she  should  understand  the  meaning,  the 
inevitableness,  and  the  loveliness  of  natural  laws,  and  follow 
at  least  some  one  path  of  scientific  attainment,  as  far  as  to  the 
threshold  of  that  bitter  Valley  of  Humiliation,  into  which 
only  the  wisest  and  bravest  of  men  can  descend,  owning 
themselves  forever  children,  gathering  pebbles  on  a bound- 
less shore.  It  is  of  little  consequence  how  many  positions  of 
cities  she  knows,  or  how  many  dates  of  events,  or  how  many 
names  of  celebrated  persons — it  is  not  the  object  of  education 
to  turn  a woman  into  a dictionary  ; but  it  is  deeply  necessary 
that  she  should  be  taught  to  enter  with  her  whole  personality 
into  the  history  she  reads  ; to  picture  the  passages  of  it  vitally 
in  her  own  bright  imagination  ; to  apprehend,  with  her  fine 
instincts,  the  pathetic  circumstances  and  dramatic  relations, 
which  the  historian  too  often  only  eclipses  by  his  reasoning, 
and  disconnects  by  his  arrangement : it  is  for  her  to  trace 
the  hidden  equities  of  divine  reward,  and  catch  sight,  through 


OF  QUEENS'  GARDENS. 


91 


the  darkness,  of  the  fateful  threads  of  woven  fire  that  connect 
error  with  its  retribution.  But,  chiefly  of  all,  she  is  to  be 
taught  to  extend  the  limits  of  her  sympathy  with  respect  to 
that  history  which  is  being  for  her  determined,  as  the  mo- 
ments pass  in  which  she  draws  her  peaceful  breath : and  to 
the  contemporary  calamity  which,  were  it  but  rightly  mourned 
by  her,  would  recur  no  more  hereafter.  She  is  to  exercise 
herself  in  imagining  what  would  be  the  effects  upon  her  mind 
and  conduct,  if  she  were  daily  brought  into  tire  presence  ot 
the  suffering  which  is  not  the  less  real  because  shut  from  her 
sight.  She  is  to  be  taught  somewhat  to  understand  the 
nothingness  of  the  proportion  which  that  little  world  in  which 
she  lives  and  loves,  bears  to  the  world  in  which  God  lives  and 
loves ; — and  solemnly  she  is  to  be  taught  to  strive  that  her 
thoughts  of  piety  may  not  be  feeble  in  proportion  to  the 
number  they  embrace,  nor  her  prayer  more  languid  than  it  is 
for  the  momentary  relief  from  pain  of  her  husband  or  her 
child,  when  it  is  uttered  for  the  multitudes  of  those  who  have 
none  to  love  them, — and  is,  “ for  all  who  are  desolate  and 
oppressed.” 

Thus  far,  I think,  I have  had  your  concurrence;  perhaps 
you  will  not  be  with  me  in  what  I believe  is  most  needful  for 
me  to  say.  There  is  one  dangerous  science  for  women — one 
which  let  them  indeed  beware  how  they  profanely  touch — 
that  of  theology.  Strange,  and  miserably  strange,  that  while 
they  are  modest  enough  to  doubt  their  powers,  and  pause  at 
the  threshold  of  sciences  where  every  step  is  demonstrable 
and  sure,  they  will  plunge  headlong,  and  without  one  thought 
of  ineompetency,  into  that  science  in  which  the  greatest  men 
have  trembled,  and  the  wisest  erred.  Strange,  that  they  will 
complacently  and  pridefully  bind  up  whatever  vice  or  folly 
there  is  in  them,  whatever  arrogance,  petulance,  or  blind  incom- 
prehensiveness, into  one  bitter  bundle  of  consecrated  myrrh. 
Strange,  in  creatures  born  to  be  Love  visible,  that  where  they 
can  know  least,  they  will  condemn  first,  and  think  to  recom- 
mend themselves  to  their  Master  by  scrambling  up  the  steps 
of  His  judgment  throne,  to  divide  it  with  Him.  Most  strange, 
that  they  should  think  they  were  led  by  the  Spirit  of  the 


92 


SESAME  AND  LILIES. 


Comforter  Id  to  habits  of  mind  which  have  become  in  them 
the  unmixed  elements  of  home  discomfort  ; and  that  the;? 
dare  to  turn  the  Household  Gods  of  Christianity  into  ugly 
idols  of  their  own — spiritual  dolls,  for  them  to  dress  accord- 
ing to  their  caprice  ; and  from  which  their  husbands  must  | 
turn  away  in  grieved  contempt,  lest  they  should  be  shrieked  I 
at  for  breaking  them. 

I believe,  then,  with  this  exception,  that  a girl's  education 
should  be  nearly,  in  its  course  and  material  of  study,  the 
same  as  a boy’s  ; but  quite  differently  directed.  A woman, 
in  any  rank  r l life,  ought  to  know  whatever  her  husband  is 
likely  to  know,  but  to  know  it  in  a different  way.  His  com- 
mand of  it  should  be  foundational  and  progressive,  hers, 
general  and  accomplished  for  daily  and  helpful  use.  Not  but  j 
that  it  would  often  be  wiser  in  men  to  learn  things  in  a I 
womanly  sort  of  way,  for  present  use,  and  to  seek  for  the  dis-  j 
cipline  and  training  of  their  mental  powers  in  such  branches 
of  study  as  will  be  afterwards  fittest  for  social  service  ; but, 
speaking  broadly,  a man  ought  to  know  any  language  or 
science  he  learns,  thoroughly,  while  a woman  ought  to  know 
the  same  language,  or  science,  only  so  far  as  may  enable  her 
to  sympathise  in  her  husband’s  pleasures,  and  in  those  of  his 
best  friends. 

Yet,  observe,  with  exquisite  accuracy  as  far  as  she  reach-  j 
es.  There  is  a wide  difference  between  elementary  knowledge 
and  superficial  knowledge — between  a firm  beginning,  and  a 
feeble  smattering.  A woman  may  always  help  her  husband  | 
by  what  she  knows,  however  little  ; by  what  she  half-knows, 
or  mis-knows,  she  will  only  teaze  him. 

And,  indeed,  if  there  were  to  be  any  difference  between  a 
girl’s  education  and  a boy’s,  I should  say  that  of  the  two 
the  girl  should  be  earlier  led,  as  her  intellect  ripens  faster, 
into  deep  and  serious  subjects  ; and  that  her  range  of  lit*  j 
erature  should  be,  not  more,  but  less  frivolous,  calculated 
to  add  the  qualities  of  patience  and  seriousness  to  her  nab 
ural  poignancy  of  thought  and  quickness  of  writ ; and  also 
to  keep  her  in  a lofty  and  pure  element  of  thought.  I enter 
not  now  into  any  question  of  choice  of  books  ; only  be  sure 


OF  QUEENS'  GARDENS. 


93 


that  her  books  are  not  heaped  up  in  her  lap  as  they  fall  out 
of  the  package  of  the  circulating  library,  wet  with  the  last 
and  lightest  spray  of  the  fountain  of  folly. 

Or  even  of  the  fountain  of  wit  ; for  with  respect  to  that 
sore  temptation  of  novel-reading,  it  is  not  the  badness  of  a 
novel  that  we  should  dread,  but  its  over-wrought  interest. 
The  weakest  romance  is  not  so  stupefying  as  the  lower  forms 
af  religious  exciting  literature,  and  the  worst  romance  is  not 
so  corrupting  as  false  history,  false  philosophy,  or  false  po- 
litical essays.  But  the  best  romance  becomes  dangerous,  if, 
by  its  excitement,  it  renders  the  ordinary  course  of  life  unin- 
teresting, and  increases  the  morbid  thirst  for  useless  ac- 
quaintance with  scenes  in  which  we  shall  never  be  called  upon 
to  act. 

I speak  therefore  of  good  novels  only  ; and  our  modern 
literature  is  particularly  rich  in  types  of  such.  Well  read* 
indeed,  these  books  have  serious  use,  being  nothing  less  than 
treatises  on  moral  anatomy  and  chemistry  ; studies  of  human 
nature  in  the  elements  of  it.  But  I attach  little  weight  to 
this  function  : they  are  hardly  ever  read  with  earnestness 
enough  to  permit  them  to  fulfil  it.  The  utmost  they  usually 
do  is  to  enlarge  somewhat  the  charity  of  a kind  reader,  or  the 
bitterness  of  a malicious  one  ; for  each  will  gather,  from  the 
novel,  food  for  her  own  disposition.  Those  who  are  natu- 
rally proud  and  envious  will  learn  from  Thackeray  to  despise 
humanity ; those  who  are  naturally  gentle,  to  pity  it ; those 
who  are  naturally  shallow,  to  laugh  at  it.  So,  also,  there 
might  be  a serviceable  power  in  novels  to  bring  before  us,  in 
vividness,  a human  truth  which  we  had  before  dimly  con- 
ceived ; but  the  temptation  to  picturesqueness  of  statement 
is  so  great,  that  often  the  best  writers  of  fiction  cannot  resist 
it ; and  our  views  are  rendered  so  violent  and  one  sided,  that 
their  vitality  is  rather  a harm  than  good. 

Without,  however,  venturing  here  on  any  attempt  at  decis- 
ion how  much  novel-reading  should  be  allowed,  let  me  at 
least  clearly  assert  this,  that  whether  novels,  or  poetry,  or 
history  be  read,  they  should  be  chosen,  not  for  what  is  out  of 
them,  but  for  what  is  in  them.  The  chance  and  scattered 


D-i 


SESAME  AND  LILIES. 


evil  that  may  here  and  there  haunt,  or  hide  itself  in,  a pow 
erful  book,  never  does  any  harm  to  a noble  girl ; but  the 
emptiness  of  an  author  oppresses  her,  and  his  amiable  folly 
degrades  her.  And  if  she  can  have  access  to  a good  library  oi 
old  and  classical  books,  there  need  be  no  choosing  at  all 
Keep  the  modern  magazine  and  novel  out  of  your  girl’s  way ; 
turn  her  loose  into  the  old  library  every  wet  day,  and  let  her 
alone.  She  will  find  what  is  good  for  her  ; you  cannot : for 
there  is  just  this  difference  between  the  making  of  a girl’s 
character  and  a boy’s — you  may  chisel  a boy  into  shape,  as 
you  would  a rock,  or  hammer  him  into  it,  if  he  be  of  a better 
kind,  as  you  would  a piece  of  bronze.  But  you  cannot  ham- 
mer a girl  into  anything.  She  grows  as  a flower  does, — she 
will  wither  without  sun  ; she  will  decay  in  her  sheath,  as  the 
narcissus  does,  if  you  do  not  give  her  air  enough ; she  may 
fall,  and  defile  her  head  in  dust,  if  you  leave  her  without  help 
at  some  moments  of  her  life  ; but  you  cannot  fetter  her  ; she 
must  take  her  own  fair  form  and  way,  if  she  take  any,  and  in 
mind  as  in  body,  must  have  always 

“ Her  household  motions  light  and  free 
And  steps  of  virgin  liberty.” 

Let  her  loose  in  the  library,  I say,  as  you  do  a fawn  in  a field. 
It  knows  the  bad  weeds  twenty  times  better  than  you  ; and 
the  good  ones  too,  and  will  eat  some  bitter  and  prickly  ones, 
good  for  it,  which  you  had  not  the  slightest  thought  were 
good. 

Then,  in  art,  keep  the  finest  models  before  her,  and  let  her 
practice  in  all  accomplishments  be  accurate  and  thorough,  so 
as  to  enable  her  to  understand  more  than  she  accomplishes- 
X say  the  finest  models — that  is  to  say,  the  truest,  simplest, 
nsefullest.  Note  those  epithets  ; they  will  range  through  all 
the  arts.  Try  them  in  music,  where  you  might  think  them 
the  least  applicable.  I say  the  truest,  that  in  which  the  notes 
most  closely  and  faithfully  express  the  meaning  of  the  words, 
or  the  character  of  intended  emotion  ; again,  the  simplest, 
that  in  which  the  meaning  and  melody  are  attained  with  the 
fewest  and  most  significant  notes  possible  ; and,  finally,  the 


OF  QUEENS’  GARDENS. 


95 


usefullest,  that  music  which  makes  the  best  words  most  beau- 
tiful, which  enchants  them  in  our  memories  each  with  its 
own  glory  of  sound,  and  which  applies  them  closest  to  tha 
heart  at  the  moment  we  need  them. 

And  not  only  in  the  material  and  in  the  course,  but  yet 
more  earnestly  in  the  spirit  of  it,  let  a girl’s  education  be  as 
serious  as  a boy’s.  You  bring  up  your  girls  as  if  they  were 
meant  for  sideboard  ornament,  and  then  complain  of  their 
frivolity.  Give  tlmm  the  same  advantages  that  you  give  their 
brothers — appeal  to  the  same  grand  instincts  of  virtue  in 
them  ; teach  them  also  that  courage  and  truth  are  the  pillars 
of  their  being  : do  you  think  that  they  would  not  answer 
that  appeal,  brave  and  true  as  they  are  even  now,  when  you 
know  that  there  is  hardly  a girl’s  school  in  this  Christian 
kingdom  where  the  children’s  courage  or  sincerity  would  be 
thought  of  half  so  much  importance  as  their  way  of  coming 
in  at  a door  ; and  when  the  whole  system  of  society,  as  re- 
spects the  mode  of  establishing  them  in  life,  is  one  rotten 
plague  of  cowardice  and  imposture — cowardice,  in  not  daring 
to  let  them  live,  or  love,  except  as  their  neighbours  choose  ; 
and  imposture,  in  bringing,  for  the  purpose  of  our  own  pride, 
the  full  glow  of  the  world’s  worst  vanity  upon  a girl’s  eyes, 
at  the  very  period  when  the  whole  happiness  of  her  future  ex- 
istence depends  upon  her  remaining  undazzled  ? 

And  give  them,  lastly,  not  only  noble  teachings,  but  noble 
teachers.  You  consider  somewhat,  before  you  send  your  boy 
to  school,  what  kind  of  a man  the  master  is  ; — whatsoever 
kind  of  a man  he  is,  you  at  least  give  him  full  authority  over 
your  son,  and  show  some  respect  for  him  yourself ; if  he 
comes  to  dine  with  you,  you  do  not  put  him  at  a side  table  ; 
you  know  also  that,  at  his  college,  your  child’s  immediate 
tutor  will  be  under  the  direction  of  some  still  higher  tutor, 
for  whom  you  have  absolute  reverence.  You  do  not  treat  the 
Dean  of  Christ  Church  or  the  Master  of  Trinity  as  your  in- 
feriors. 

But  what  teachers  do  you  give  your  girls,  and  what  rever- 
ence do  you  show  to  the  teachers  you  have  chosen  ? Is  a girl 
likely  to  think  her  own  conduct,  or  her  own  intellect,  of  much 


96 


SESAME  AND  LILIES. 


importance,  when  you  trust  the  entire  formation  of  her  chap, 
acter,  moral  and  intellectual,  to  a person  whom  you  let  youi 
servants  treat  with  less  respect  than  they  do  your  housekeeper 
(as  if  the  soul  of  your  child  were  a less  charge  than  jams  and 
groceries),  and  whom  you  yourself  think  you  confer  an  hon< 
our  upon  by  letting  her  sometimes  sit  in  the  drawing-room  ir, 
the  evening? 

Thus,  then,  of  literature  as  her  help,  and  thus  of  art 
There  is  one  more  help  which  we  cannot  do  without — one 
which,  alone,  has  sometimes  done  more  than  all  other  influ- 
ences besides, — the  help  of  wild  and  fair  nature.  Hear  this 
of  the  education  of  Joan  of  Arc  : 

“ The  education  of  this  poor  girl  wTas  mean  according  to 
the  present  standard  ; wras  ineffably  grand,  according  to  a 
purer  philosophic  standard  ; and  only  not  good  for  our  age, 
because  for  us  it  would  be  unattainable.  * * * 

“ Next  after  her  spiritual  advantages,  she  owed  most  to  the 
advantages  of  her  situation.  The  fountain  of  Domremy  was 
on  the  brink  of  a boundless  forest ; and  it  was  haunted  to 
that  degree  by  fairies,  that  the  parish  priest  (cure)  was  obliged 
to  read  mass  there  once  a year,  in  order  to  keep  them  in  any 
decent  bounds.  * * * 

“ But  the  forests  of  Domremy — those  were  the  glories  of  the 
land,  for  in  them  abode  mysterious  powers  and  ancient  secrets 
that  towered  into  tragic  strength.  ‘ Abbeys  there  were,  and 
abbey  windows,’ — £ like  Moorish  temples  of  the  Hindoos,’  that 
exercised  even  princely  power  both  in  Touraine  and  in  the 
German  Diets.  These  had  their  sweet  bells  that  pierced  the 
forests  for  manj'  a league  at  matins  or  vespers,  and  each  its 
own  dreamy  legend.  Few  enough,  and  scattered  enough, 
were  these  abbeys,  so  as  in  no  degree  to  disturb  the  deep  soli- 
tude of  the  region  ; yet  many  enough  to  spread  a network  or 
awning  of  Christian  sanctity  over  what  else  might  have  seemed 
a heathen  wilderness.”  * 

Now,  you  cannot,  indeed,  have  here  in  England,  "woods 
eighteen  miles  deep  to  the  centre  ; but  you  can,  jjerhaps,  keep 
a fairy  or  two  for  your  children  yet,  if  you  wish  to  keep  them 

* “Joan  of  Arc  : in  reference  to  M.  Michelet’s  History  of  France.’ 
De  Quincey’s  Works.  Yol.  iii.  p.  217. 


OF  QUEENS'  GARDENS. 


97 


But  do  you  wish  it  ? Suppose  you  had  each,  at  the  back  of 
your  houses,  a garden  large  enough  for  your  children  to  play 
in,  with  just  as  much  lawn  as  wTould  give  them  room  to  run, 
-—no  more — and  that  you  could  not  change  your  abode  ; but 
that,  if  you  chose,  you  could  double  your  income,  or  quad- 
ruple it,  by  digging  a coal  shaft  in  the  middle  of  the  lawns 
and  turning  the  flower-beds  into  heaj)s  of  coke.  W ould  you 
do  it  ? I think  not.  I can  tell  you,  you  would  be  wrong  if 
you  did,  though  it  gave  you  income  sixty-fold  instead  of  four- 
fold. 

Yet  this  is  what  you  are  doing  with  all  England.  The  whole 
country  is  but  a little  garden,  not  more  than  enough  for  your 
children  to  run  on  the  lawns  of,  if  you  would  let  them  all  run 
there.  And  this  little  garden  you  wall  turn  into  furnace- 
ground,  and  fill  wTith  heaps  of  cinders,  if  you  can  ; and  those 
children  of  yours,  not  you,  wall  suffer  for  it.  For  the  fairies 
will  not  be  all  banished  ; there  are  fairies  of  the  furnace  as  of 
the  wood,  and  their  first  gifts  seem  to  be  “ sharp  arrows  of  the 
mighty  but  their  last  gifts  are  “ coals  of  juniper.” 

And  yet  I cannot — though  there  is  no  part  of  my  subiect 
that  I feel  more — press  this  upon  you  ; for  we  made  so  little 
use  of  the  power  of  nature  wdiile  wre  had  it  that  we  shall  hardly 
feel  what  we  have  lost.  Just  on  the  other  side  of  the  Mersey 
you  have  your  Snowdon,  and  your  Menai  Straits,  and  that 
mighty  granite  rock  beyond  the  moors  of  Anglesea,  splendid 
in  its  heatherly  crest,  and  foot  planted  in  the  deep  sea,  once 
thought  of  as  sacred — a divine  promontory,  looking  westward; 
the  Holy  Head  or  Headland,  still  not  without  awe  when  its 
red  light  glares  first  through  storm.  These  are  the  hills,  and 
these  the  bays  and  blue  inlets,  which,  among  the  Greeks, 
]would  have  been  always  loved,  always  fateful  in  influence  on 
the  national  mind.  That  Snowdon  is  your  Parnassus  ; but 
■where  are  its  Muses  ? That  Holyhead  mountain  is  your  Island 
of  JEgina,  but  where  is  its  Temple  to  Minerva  ? 

Shall  I read  you  what  the  Christian  Minerva  had  achieved 
under  the  shadow  of  our  Parnassus,  up  to  the  year  1848  ?— ~ 
Here  is  a little  account  of  a Welsh  School,  from  page  261  of 
the  report  on  W ales,  published  by  the  Committee  of  Council 


98 


SESAME  AND  LILIES. 


on  Education.  This  is  a School  close  to  a town  containing 
5,000  persons 

“ I then  called  up  a larger  class,  most  of  whom  had  recently 
come  to  the  school.  Three  girls  repeatedly  declared  they  had 
never  heard  of  Christ,  and  two  that  they  had  never  heard  of 
God.  Two  out  of  six  thought  Christ  was  on  earth  now  (‘  they 
'might  have  had  a worse  thought,  perhaps’)  ; three  knew  noth- 
ing about  the  crucifixion.  Four  out  of  seven  did  not  know 
the  names  of  the  months,  nor  the  number  of  days  in  a year. 
They  had  no  notion  of  addition  beyond  two  and  two,  or  three 
and  three  ; their  minds  were  perfect  blanks.” 

Oh,  ye  women  of  England  ! from  the  Princess  of  that  Wales 
to  the  simplest  of  you,  do  not  think  your  own  children  can  be 
brought  into  their  true  fold  of  rest  while  these  are  scattered 
on  the  hills,  as  sheep  having  no  shepherd.  And  do  not  think 
your  daughters  can  be  trained  to  the  truth  of  their  own  human 
beauty,  while  the  pleasant  places,  which  God  made  at  once  for 
their  school-room  and  their  play-ground,  lie  desolate  and  de- 
filed. You  cannot  baptize  them  rightly  in  those  inch-deep 
fonts  of  yours,  unless  you  baptize  them  also  in  the  sweet 
waters  wdiich  the  great  Lawgiver  strikes  forth  forever  from 
the  rocks  of  your  native  land — waters  which  a Pagan  would 
have  worshipped  in  their  purity,  and  you  only  worship  with 
pollution.  You  cannot  lead  your  children  faithfully  to  those 
narrow^  axe-liewn  church  altars  of  yours,  while  the  dark  azure 
altars  in  heaven — the  mountains  that  sustain  your  island 
throne, — mountains  on  wdiich  a Pagan  would  have  seen  the 
powers  of  heaven  rest  in  every  wreathed  cloud — remain  for 
you  without  inscription ; altars  built,  not  to,  but  by,  an  Un- 
known  God. 

III.  Thus  far,  then,  of  the  nature,  thus  far  of  the  teaching, 
of  woman,  and  thus  of  her  household  office,  and  queenliness. 
We  come  now  to  our  last,  our  widest  question, — What  is  her 
queenly  office  with  respect  to  the  state  ? 

Generally  we  are  under  an  impression  that  a man’s  duties 
are  public,  and  a woman’s  private.  But  this  is  not  altogether 
so.  A man  has  a personal  work  or  duty,  relating  to  his  own 


OF  QUEENS'  GARDENS. 


93 


home,  and  a public  work  or  duty,  which  is  the  expansion  of 
the  other,  relating  to  the  state.  So  a woman  has  a personal 
work  and  duty,  relating  to  her  own  home,  and  a public  work 
and  duty,  which  is  also  the  expansion  of  that. 

Now  the  man’s  work  for  his  own  home  is,  as  has  been  said, 
to  secure  its  maintenance,  progress,  and  defence  ; the  woman’s 
to  secure  its  order,  comfort  and  loveliness. 

Expand  both  these  functions.  The  man’s  duty,  as  a mem- 
ber of  a commonwealth,  is  to  assist  in  the  maintenance,  in  the 
advance,  in  the  defence  of  the  state.  The  woman’s  duty,  as  a 
member  of  the  commonwealth,  is  to  assist  in  the  ordering,  in 
the  comforting,  and  in  the  beautiful  adornment  of  the  state. 

What  the  man  is  at  his  own  gate,  defending  it,  if  need  be, 
against  insult  and  spoil,  that  also,  not  in  a less,  but  in  a more 
devoted  measure,  he  is  to  be  at  the  gate  of  his  country,  leaving 
his  home,  if  need  be,  even  to  the  spoiler,  to  do  his  more  in- 
cumbent work  there. 

And,  in  like  manner,  what  the  woman  is  to  be  within  her 
gates,  as  the  centre  of  order,  the  balm  of  distress,  and  the 
mirror  of  beauty ; that  she  is  also  to  be  without  her  gates, 
where  order  is  more  difficult  distress  more  imminent,  loveli- 
ness more  rare. 

And  as  within  the  human  heart  there  is  always  set  an  in- 
stinct for  all  its  real  duties, — an  instinct  which  you  cannot 
quench,  but  only  warp  and  corrupt  if  you  withdraw  it  from 
its  true  purpose  ; — as  there  is  the  intense  instinct  of  love,  which, 
rightly  disciplined,  maintains  all  the  sanctities  of  life  and, 
misdirected,  undermines  them  ; and  must  do  either  the  one 
or  the  other  ; so  there  is  in  the  human  heart  an  inextinguish- 
able instinct,  the  love  of  power,  which,  rightly  directed,  main- 
tains all  the  majesty  of  law  and  life,,  and  misdirected,  wrecks 
them. 

Deep  rooted  in  the  innermost  life  of  the  heart  of  man,  and 
of  the  heart  of  woman,  God  set  it  there,  and  God  keeps  it 
there.  Vainly,  as  falsely,  you  blame  or  rebuke  the  desire  of 
power ! — For  Heaven’s  sake,  and  for  Man’s  sake,  desire  it  all 
you  can.  But  what  power  ? That  is  all  the  question.  Power 
to  destroy?  the  lion’s  limb,  and  the  dragon’s  breath?  Not 


100 


SESAME  AND  LILIES. 


so.  Power  to  heal,  to  redeem,  to  guide  and  to  guard.  Powei 
of  the  sceptre  and  shield  ; the  power  of  the  royal  hand  that 
heals  in  touching,  — that  binds  the  fiend  and  looses  the  cap- 
tive ; the  throne  that  is  founded  on  the  rock  of  Justice,  and 
descended  from  only  by  steps  of  mercy.  Will  you  not  covet 
such  power  as  this,  and  seek  such  a throne  as  this,  and  be  no 
more  housewives,  but  queens  ? 

It  is  now  long  since  the  women  of  England  arrogated,  uni- 
versally, a title  which  once  belonged  to  nobility  only,  and 
having  once  been  in  the  habit  of  aecepting  the  simple  title  of 
gentlewoman,  as  correspondent  to  that  of  gentleman,  insisted 
on  the  privilege  of  assuming  the  title  of  “Lady,”*  which 
properly  corresponds  only  to  the  title  of  “Lord.” 

I do  not  blame  them  for  this  ; but  only  for  their  narrow' 
motive  in  this.  I would  have  them  desire  and  claim  the  title 
of  Lady,  provided  they  claim,  not  merely  the  title,  but  the 
office  and  duty  signified  by  it.  Lady  means  “ bread-giver  ” 
or  “loaf-giver,”  and  Lord  means  “maintainer  of  laws,”  and 
both  titles  have  reference,  not  to  the  law  which  is  maintained 
in  the  house,  nor  to  the  bread  which  is  given  to  the  Louse- 
hold  ; but  to  law  maintained  for  the  multitude,  and  to  bread 
broken  among  the  multitude.  So  that  a Lord  has  legal  claim 
only  to  his  title  in  so  far  as  he  is  the  maintainer  of  the  justice 
of  the  Lord  of  Lord’s  ; and  a Lady  has  legal  claim  to  her  title, 
only  so  far  as  she  communicates  that  help  to  the  poor  repre- 
sentatives of  her  Master,  which  women  once,  ministering  to 
Him  of  their  substance,  were  permitted  to  extend  to  that  Mas- 
ter Himself ; and  when  she  is  known,  as  He  Himself  once  wTas, 
in  breaking  of  bread. 

And  this  beneficent  and  legal  dominion,  this  power  of  the 
Dominus,  or  House  Lord,  and  of  the  Domina,  or  House-Lady, 

* I wish  there  were  a true  order  of  chivalry  instituted  for  our  English 
youth  of  certain  ranks,  in  which  both  hoy  and  girl  should  receive,  at  a 
given  age,  their  knighthood  and  ladyhood  by  true  title  ; attainable  only 
by  certain  probation  and  trial  both  of  character  and  accomplishment; 
and  to  be  forfeited  on  conviction,  by  their  peers  of  any  dishonorable 
act.  Such  an  institution  would  be  entirely,  and  with  all  noble  results, 
possible,  in  a nation  w’hieh  loved  honour.  That  it  would  not  be  possible 
among  us  is  not  to  the  discredit  cf  the  scheme 


OF  QUEENS'-  GARDENS. 


101 


Is  great  and  venerable,  not  in  the  number  of  those  through 
whom  it  has  lineally  descended,  but  in  the  number  of  those 
whom  it  grasps  within  its  sway ; it  is  always  regarded  with 
reverent  worship  wherever  its  dynasty  is  founded  on  its  duty, 
and  its  ambition  corelative  with  its  beneficence.  Your  fancy 
is  pleased  with  the  thought  of  being  noble  ladies,  with  a train 
of  vassals.  Be  it  so  : you  cannot  be  too  noble,  and  your  train 
cannot  be  too  great ; but  see  to  it  that  your  train  is  of  vassals 
whom  you  serve  and  feed,  not  merely  of  slaves  who  serve  and 
feed  you  ; and  that  the  multitude  which  obeys  you  is  of  those 
whom  you  have  comforted,  not  oppressed, — whom  you  have 
redeemed,  not  led  into  captivity. 

And  this,  which  is  true  of  the  lower  or  household  dominion, 
is  equally  true  of  the  queenly  dominion  ; — that  highest  dignity 
is  open  to  you,  if  you  will  also  accejDt  that  highest  duty.  Rex 
et  Regina — Roi  et  Reine — “Right- doers  they  differ  but  from 

the  Lady  and  Lord,  in  that  their  powTer  is  supreme  over  the 
mind  as  over  the  person — that  they  not  only  feed  and  clothe, 
but  direct  and  teach.  And  whether  consciously  or  not,  you 
must  be,  in  many  a heart,  enthroned : there  is  no  putting  by 
that  crown ; queens  you  must  always  be  ; queens  to  your 
lovers ; queens  to  your  husbands  and  your  sons ; queens  of 
higher  mystery  to  the  world  beyond,  which  bows  itself,  and 
will  for  ever  bow,  before  the  myrtle  crown,  and  the  stainless 
sceptre,  of  womanhood.  But,  alas  ! you  are  too  often  idle 
and  careless  queens,  grasping  at  majesty  in  the  least  things, 
while  you  abdicate  it  in  the  greatest ; and  leaving  misrule  and 
violence  to  work  their  will  among  men,  in  defiance  of  the 
power,  which,  holding  straight  in  gift  from  the  Prince  of  all 
Peace,  the  wicked  among  you  betray,  and  the  good  forget. 

“ Prince  of  Peace.”  Note  that  name.  When  kings  rule  in 
that  name,  and  nobles,  and  the  judges  of  the  earth,  they  also, 
in  their  narrow  place,  and  mortal  measure,  receive  the  power 
of  it.  There  are  no  other  rulers  than  they  : other  rule  than 
theirs  is  but  misrule  ; they  who  govern  verily  “ Dei  gratia  ” are 
all  princes,  yes,  or  princesses,  of  peace.  There  is  not  a war  in 
the  world,  no,  nor  an  injustice,  but  you  women  are  answerable 
for  it ; not  in  that  you  have  provoked,  but  in  that  you  have 


102 


SESAME  AND  LILIES. 


not  hindered.  Men,  by  their  nature,  are  prone  to  fight ; the* 
will  fight  for  any  cause,  or  for  none.  It  is  for  you  to  choose 
their  cause  for  them,  and  to  forbid  them  when  there  is  no 
cause.  There  is  no  suffering,  no  injustice,  no  misery  in  the 
earth,  but  the  guilt  of  it  lies  lastly  with  you.  Men  can  bear 
the  sight  of  it,  but  you  should  not  be  able  to  bear  it.  Men 
may  tread  it  down  without  sympathy  in  their  own  struggle  ; 
but  men  are  feeble  in  sympathy,  and  contracted  in  hope  ; it  is 
you  only  who  can  feel  the  depths  of  pain  ; and  conceive  the 
way  of  its  healing.  Instead  of  trying  to  do  this,  you  turn 
away  from  it ; you  shut  yourselves  within  your  park  walls  and 
garden  gates  ; and  you  are  content  to  know  that  there  is  be- 
yond them  a whole  world  in  wilderness — a world  of  secrets 
which  you  dare  not  penetrate  ; and  of  suffering  which  you 
dare  not  conceive. 

I tell  you  that  this  is  to  me  quite  the  most  amazing  among 
the  phenomena  of  humanity.  I am  surprised  at  no  depths  to 
which,  when  once  warped  from  its  honor,  that  humanity  can 
be  degraded.  I do  not  wonder  at  the  miser’s  death,  with  his 
hands,  as  they  relax,  dropping  gold.  I do  not  wonder  at  the 
sensualist’s  life,  with  the  shroud  wrapped  about  his  feet.  I do 
not  wonder  at  the  single-handed  murder  of  a single  victim, 
done  by  the  assassin  in  the  darkness  of  the  railway,  or  reed^ 
shadow  of  the  marsh.  I do  not  even  wonder  at  the  myriad- 
handed murder  of  multitudes,  done  boastfully  in  the  daylight, 
by  the  frenzy  of  nations,  and  the  immeasurable,  unimaginable 
guilt,  heaped  up  from  hell  to  heaven,  of  their  priests,  and 
kings.  But  this  is  wonderful  to  me — oh,  how  wonderful ! — 
to  see  the  tender  and  delicate  woman  among  you,  with  her 
child  at  her  breast,  and  a power,  if  she  would  wield  it,  over 
it,  and  over  its  father,  purer  than  the  air  of  heaven,  and 
stronger  than  the  seas  of  earth — nay,  a magnitude  of  blessing 
which  her  husband  would  not  part  with  for  all  that  earth  it- 
self, though  it  were  made  of  one  entire  and  perfect  chryso- 
lite : — to  see  her  abdicate  this  majesty  to  play  at  precedence 
with  her  next-door  neighbor  ! This  is  wonderful — oh,  won- 
derful ! — to  see  her,  with  every  innocent  feeling  fresh  within 
her,  go  out  in  the  morning  into  her  garden  to  play  with  the 


OF  QUEEN S'  GARDENS. 


103 


fringes  01  its  guarded  flowers,  and  lift  their  heads  when  they 
are  drooping,  with  her  happy  smile  upon  her  face,  and  no 
cloud  upon  her  brow,  because  there  is  a little  wall  around  her 
place  of  peace  : and  yet  she  knows,  in  her  heart,  if  she  would 
only  look  for  its  knowledge,  that,  outside  of  that  little  rose- 
covered  wall,  the  wild  grass,  to  the  horizon,  is  torn  up  by  the 
agony  of  men,  and  beat  level  by  the  drift  of  their  life-blood 
Have  you  ever  considered  what  a deep  under  meaning  there 
lies,  or  at  least  may  be  read,  if  we  choose,  in  our  custom  of 
strewing  flowers  before  those  whom  we  think  most  happy? 
Do  you  suppose  it  is  merely  to  deceive  them  into  the  hope 
that  happiness  is  always  to  fall  thus  in  showers  at  their  feet  ? 
— that  wherever  they  pass  they  will  tread  on  herbs  of  sweet 
scent,  and  that  the  rough  ground  will  be  made  smooth  for 
them  by  depth  of  roses  ? So  surely  as  they  believe  that,  they 
will  have,  instead,  to  walk  on  bitter  herbs  and  thorns ; and 
the  only  softness  to  their  feet  will  be  of  snow.  But  it  is  not 
thus  intended  they  should  believe  ; there  is  a better  meaning 
in  that  old  custom.  The  path  of  a good  woman  is  indeed 
strewn  with  flowers  : but  they  rise  behind  her  steps,  not  be- 
fore them.  “ Her  feet  have  touched  the  meadows,  and  left 
the  daisies  rosy.”  You  think  that  only  a lover’s  fancy  ; — false 
and  vain  ! How  if  it  could  be  true  ? You  think  this  also, 
perhaps,  only  a poet’s  fancy — 

“ Even  tlie  light  harebell  raised  its  head 
Elastic  from  her  airy  tread.” 


But  it  is  little  to  say  of  a woman,  that  she  only  does  not  de- 
stroy where  she  passes.  She  should  revive  ; the  harebells 
should  bloom,  not  stoop,  as  she  passes.  You  think  I am  go- 
ing into  wild  hyperbole  ? Pardon  me,  not  a whit — I mean 
what  I say  in  calm  English,  spoken  in  resolute  truth.  You 
have  heard  it  said — (and  I believe  there  is  more  than  fancy 
even  in  that  saying,  but  let  it  pass  for  a fanciful  one) — that 
flowers  only  flourish  rightly  in  the  garden  of  some  one  who 
loves  them.  I know  you  would  like  that  to  be  true  ; you 
would  think  it  a pleasant  magic  if  you  could  flush  your  flow* 


104 


SESAME  AND  LILIES. 


ers  into  brighter  bloom  by  a kind  look  upon  them  : nay^ 
more,  if  your  look  had  the  power,  not  only  to  cheer,  but  to 
guard  them — if  you  could  bid  the  black  blight  turn  away,  and 
the  knotted  caterpillar  spare — if  you  could  bid  the  dew  fall 
upon  them  in  the  drought,  and  say  to  the  south  wind,  in  frost 
— “ Come,  thou  south,  and  breathe  upon  my  garden,  that  the 
spices  of  it  may  flow  out.”  This  you  would  think  a great 
thing?  And  do  you  think  it  not  a greater  thing,  that  all  this 
(and  how  much  more  than  this  !)  you  can  do,  for  fairer  flow- 
ers than  these — flowers  that  could  bless  you  for  having  blessed 
them,  and  will  love  you  for  having  loved  them  ; — flowers  that 
have  eyes  like  yours,  and  thoughts  like  yours,  and  lives  like 
yours  ; which,  once  saved,  you  save  for  ever  ? Is  this  only 
a little  power  ? Far  among  the  moorlands  and  the  rocks, — 
far  in  the  darkness  of  the  terrible  streets, — these  feeble  florets 
are  lying,  with  all  their  fresh  leaves  torn,  and  their  stems 
broken — will  you  never  go  down  to  them,  nor  set  them  in 
order  in  their  little  fragrant  beds,  nor  fence  them  in  their 
shuddering  from  the  fierce  wind  ? Shall  morning  follow  morn- 
ing, for  you,  but  not  for  them  ; and  the  dawn  rise  to  watch, 
far  away,  those  frantic  Dances  of  Death  ; * but  no  dawm  rise 
to  breathe  upon  these  living  banks  of  wild  violet,  and  wood- 
bine, and  rose  ; nor  call  to  you,  through  your  casement, — 
call,  (not  giving  you  the  name  of  the  English  poet’s  lady,  but 
the  name  of  Dante’s  great  Matilda,  who  on  the  edge  of  happy 
Lethe,  stood,  wreathing  flowers  with  flowers,)  saying  : — 

“ Come  into  the  garden,  Maud, 

For  the  black  hat,  night,  has  flown, 

And  the  woodbine  spices  are  wafted  abroad 
And  the  musk  of  the  roses  blown  ? ” 

Will  you  not  go  down  among  them  ? — among  those  sweet 
living  things,  whose  new  courage,  sprung  from  the  earth  with 
the  deep  colour  of  heaven  upon  it,  is  starting  up  in  strength 
of  goodly  spire  ; and  whose  purity,  washed  from  the  dust,  is 
opening,  bud  by  bud,  into  the  flower  of  promise  ; — and  still 

* See  note,  p.  57. 


OF  QUEENS'  GARDENS. 


105 


they  turn  to  you,  and  for  you,  “ The  Larkspur  listens — I hear, 
I hear  ! And  the  Lily  whispers — I wait.” 

Did  you  notice  that  I missed  two  lines  when  I read  you 
that  first  stanza  ; and  think  that  I had  forgotten  them?  Hear 
them  now  : — 

11  Come  into  the  garden,  Maud, 

For  the  black  bat,  night,  has  £own ; 

Come  into  the  garden,  Maud, 

I am  here  at  the  gate,  alone#” 

Who  is  it,  think  you,  who  stands  at  the  gate  of  this  sweeter 
garden,  alone,  waiting  for  you  ? Did  you  ever  hear,  not  of 
a Maude,  but  a Madeleine,  who  went  down  to  her  garden  in 
the  dawn,  and  found  one  waiting  at  the  gate,  whom  she  sup- 
posed to  be  the  gardener  ? Have  you  not  sought  Him  often ; 
— sought  Him  in  vain,  all  through  the  night ; — sought  Him 
in  vain  at  the  gate  of  that  old  garden  where  the  fiery  sword 
is  set  ? He  is  never  there  ; but  at  the  gate  of  this  garden  He 
is  waiting  always — waiting  to  take  your  hand — ready  to  go 
down  to  see  the  fruits  of  the  valley,  to  see  whether  the  vine 
has  flourished,  and  the  pomegranate  budded.  There  you 
shall  see  with  Him  the  little  tendrils  of  the  vines  that  His 
hand  is  guiding— there  you  shall  see  the  pomegranate  spring- 
ing where  His  hand  east  the  sanguine  seed  ; — more  : you 
shall  see  the  troops  of  the  angel  keepers,  that,  with  their 
wings,  wave  away  the  hungry  birds  from  the  pathsides  where 
He  has  sown,  and  call  to  each  other  between  the  vineyard 
rows,  “ Take  us  the  foxes,  the  little  foxes,  that  spoil  the  vines, 
for  our  vines  have  tender  grapes.”  Oh — you  queens — you 
queens  ! among  the  hills  and  happy  greenwood  of  this  land 
of  yours,  shall  the  foxes  have  holes,  and  the  birds  of  the  air 
have  nests  ; and  in  your  cities,  shall  the  stones  cry  out  against 
you,  that  they  are  the  only  pillows  where  the  Son  of  Man  can 
lay  His  head  ? 


LECTURE  HI 


THE  MYSTERY  OF  LIFE  AND  ITS  ARTS. 

Lecture  delivered  in  the  theatre  of  the  Roval  College  of  Science, 
Dublin,  1868. 

96.  When  I accepted  tlie  privilege  of  addressing  you  to-day, 
I was  not  aware  of  a restriction  with  respect  to  the  topics  of 
discussion  which  may  be  brought  before  this  Society  * — a re- 
striction which,  though  entirely  wise  and  right  under  the 
circumstances  contemplated  in  its  introduction,  would  neces- 
sarily have  disabled  me,  thinking  as  I think,  from  preparing 
any  lecture  for  you  on  the  subject  of  art  in  a form  which 
might  be  permanently  useful.  Pardon  me,  therefore,  in  so 
far  as  I must  transgress  such  limitation  ; for  indeed  my  in- 
fringement will  be  of  the  letter — not  of  the  spirit — of  your 
commands.  In  whatever  I may  say  touching  the  religion 
which  has  been  the  foundation  of  art,  or  the  policy  which  has 
contributed  to  its  power,  if  I offend  one,  I shall  offend  all : 
for  I shall  take  no  note  of  any  separations  in  creeds,  or  an- 
tagonisms in  parties  : neither  do  I fear  that  ultimately  I shall 
offend  any,  by  proving — or  at  least  stating  as  capable  of  posi- 
tive proof — the  connection  of  all  that  is  best  in  the  crafts  and 
arts  of  man,  with  the  simplicity  of  his  faith,  and  the  sincerity 
of  his  patriotism. 

97.  But  I speak  to  you  under  another  disadvantage,  by 
which  I am  checked  in  frankness  of  utterance,  not  here  only, 
but  everywhere  ; namely,  that  I am  never  fully  aware  how 
far  my  audiences  are  disposed  to  give  me  credit  for  real 
knowledge  of  my  subject,  or  how  far  they  grant  me  attention 
only  because  I have  been  sometimes  thought  an  ingenious  or 
pleasant  essayist  upon  it.  For  I have  had  what,  in  many  re- 
spects, I boldly  call  the  misfortune,  to  set  my  words  some- 
* That  no  reference  should  be  made  to  religious  questions. 


THE  MYSTERY  OF  LIFE  AND  ITS  ARTS.  10? 


times  prettily  together ; not  without  a foolish  vanity  in  the 
poor  knack  that  I had  of  doing  so  ; until  I was  heavily  pun- 
ished for  this  pride,  by  finding  that  many  people  thought  of 
the  words  only,  and  cared  nothing  for  their  meaning.  Hap- 
pily, therefore,  the  power  of  using  such  pleasant  language— 
if  indeed  it  ever  were  mine — is  passing  away  from  me  ; and 
whatever  I am  now  able  to  say  at  all,  I find  myself  forced  to 
say  with  great  plainness.  For  my  thoughts  have  changed 
also,  as  my  words  have  ; and  whereas  in  earlier  life,  what 
little  influence  I obtained  was  due  perhaps  chiefly  to  the  en- 
thusiasm with  which  I was  able  to  dwell  on  the  beauty  of  the 
physical  clouds,  and  of  their  colours  in  the  sky  ; so  all  the 
influence  I now  desire  to  retain  must  be  due  to  the  earnest- 
ness with  which  I am  endeavouring  to  trace  the  form  and 
beauty  of  another  kind  of  cloud  than  those  ; the  bright  cloud, 
of  which  it  is  written — 

“What  is  your  life ? It  is  even  as  a vapour  that  appeareth 
for  a little  time,  and  then  vanislieth  away.” 

98.  I suppose  few  people  reach  the  middle  or  latter  period 
of  their  age,  without  having,  at  some  moment  of  change  or 
disappointment,  felt  the  truth  of  those  bitter  words  ; and 
been  startled  by  the  fading  of  the  sunshine  from  the  cloud  of 
their  life,  into  the  sudden  agony  of  the  knowledge  that  the 
fabric  of  it  was  as  fragile  as  a dream,  and  the  endurance  of  it 
as  transient  as  the  dew.  But  it  is  not  always  that,  even  at 
such  times  of  melancholy  surprise,  we  can  enter  into  any  true 
perception  that  this  human  life  shares,  in  the  nature  of  it, 
not  only  the  evanescence,  but  the  mystery  of  the  cloud  ; that 
its  avenues  are  wreathed  in  darkness,  and  its  forms  and 
courses  no  less  fantastic,  than  spectral  and  obscure  ; so  that 
not  only  in  the  vanity  which  we  cannot  grasp,  but  in  the 
shadow  which  we  cannot  pierce,  it  is  true  of  this  cloudy  life  of 
ours,  that  “man  walketh  in  a vain  shadow,  and  disquieteth 
himself  in  vain.” 

99.  And  least  of  all,  whatever  may  have  been  the  eagerness 
of  our  passions,  or  the  height  of  our  pride,  are  we  able  to  un- 
derstand in  its  depth  the  third  and  most  solemn  character 
in  which  our  life  is  like  those  clouds  of  heaven  ; that  to  it  be- 


108 


SESAME  AND  LILIES. 


longs  not  only  their  transience,  not  only  their  mystery,  bttf 
also  their  power  ; that  in  the  cloud  of  the  human  soul  there 
is  a fire  stronger  than  the  lightning,  and  a grace  more 
precious  than  the  rain  ; and  that  though  of  the  good  and  evil 
it  shall  one  day  be  said  alike,  that  the  place  that  knew  them 
knows  them  no  more,  there  is  an  infinite  separation  between 
those  whose  brief  presence  had  there  been  a blessing,  like 
the  mist  of  Eden  that  went  up  from  the  earth  to  water  the 
garden,  and  those  whose  place  knew  them  only  as  a drifting 
and  changeful  shade,  of  whom  the  heavenly  sentence  is,  that 
they  are  “ wells  without  water ; clouds  that  are  carried  with 
a tempest,  to  whom  the  mist  of  darkness  is  reserved  for 
ever  ? ” 

100.  To  those  among  us,  however,  who  have  lived  long 
enough  to  form  some  just  estimate  of  the  rate  of  the  changes 
which  are,  hour  by  hour  in  accelerating  catastrophe,  mani- 
festing themselves  in  the  laws,  the  arts,  and  the  creeds  of 
men,  it  seems  to  me,  that  now  at  least,  if  never  at  any  former 
time,  the  thoughts  of  the  true  nature  of  our  life,  and  of  its 
powers  and  responsibilities,  should  present  themselves  with 
absolute  sadness  and  sternness. 

And  although  I know  that  this  feeling  is  much  deepened  in 
my  own  mind  by  disappointment,  which,  by  chance,  has  at- 
tended the  greater  number  of  my  cherished  purposes,  I do 
not  for  that  reason  distrust  the  feeling  itself,  though  I am  on 
my  guard  against  an  exaggerated  degree  of  it : nay,  I rather 
believe  that  in  periods  of  new  effort  and  violent  change, 
disappointment  is  a wholesome  medicine  ; and  that  in  the 
secret  of  it,  as  in  the  twilight  so  beloved  by  Titian,  we  may 
see  the  colours  of  things  with  deeper  truth  than  in  the  most 
dazzling  sunshine.  And  because  these  truths  about  the  works 
of  men,  which  I want  to  bring  to-day  before  you,  are  most  of 
them  sad  ones,  though  at  the  same  time  helpful ; and  be- 
cause  also  I believe  that  your  kind  Irish  hearts  will  answer 
more  gladly  to  the  truthful  expression  of  a personal  feeling, 
than  to  the  exposition  of  an  abstract  principle,  I will  permit 
myself  so  much  unreserved  speaking  of  my  own  causes  of  re- 
gret, as  may  enable  you  to  make  just  allowance  for  what*  so- 


THE  MYSTERY  OF  LIFE  AND  ITS  ARTS  109 


cording  to  your  sympathies,  yon  will  call  either  the  bitter* 
ness,  or  the  insight,  of  a mind  which  has  surrendered  its  best 
hopes,  and  been  foiled  in  its  favorite  aims. 

101.  I spent  the  ten  strongest  years  of  my  life,  (from 
twenty  to  thirty,)  in  endeavoring  to  show  the  excellence  o(i 
the  work  of  the  man  whom  I believed,  and  rightly  believed, 
to  be  the  greatest  painter  of  the  schools  of  England  since 
Reynolds.  I had  then  perfect  faith  in  the  power  of  every 
great  truth  or  beauty  to  prevail  ultimately,  and  take  its  right 
place  in  usefulness  and  honour ; and  I strove  to  bring  the 
painter’s  work  into  this  due  place,  while  the  painter  was  yet 
alive.  But  he  knew,  better  than  I,  the  uselessness  of  talking 
about  what  people  could  not  see  for  themselves.  He  always 
discouraged  me  scornfully,  even  when  he  thanked  me — and 
he  died  before  even  the  superficial  effect  of  my  work  was 
visible.  I went  on,  however,  thinking  I could  at  least  be  oi 
use  to  the  public,  if  not  to  him,  in  proving  his  power.  My 
books  got  talked  about  a little.  The  prices  of  modern  pic- 
tures, generally,  rose,  and  I was  beginning  to  take  some 
pleasure  in  a sense  of  gradual  victory,  when,  fortunately  or 
unfortunately,  an  opportunity  of  perfect  trial  undeceived  me 
at  once,  and  for  ever.  The  Trustees  of  the  National  Gallery 
commissioned  me  to  arrange  the  Turner  drawings  there,  and 
permitted  me  to  prepare  three  hundred  examples  of  his 
studies  from  nature,  for  exhibition  at  Kensington.  At  Ken- 
sington they  were  and  are,  placed  for  exhibition ; but  they 
are  not  exhibited,  for  the  room  in  wrhieh  they  hang  is  always 
empty. 

102.  Well — this  showed  me  at  once,  that  those  ten  years 
of  my  life  had  been,  in  their  chief  purpose,  lost.  For  that,  I 
did  not  so  much  care  ; I had,  af  least,  learned  my  own  busi- 
ness thoroughly,  and  should  be  able,  as  I fondly  supposed, 
after  such  a lesson,  now  to  use  my  knowledge  with  better 
effect.  But  what  I did  care  for,  was  the — to  me  frightful — 
discovery,  that  the  most  splendid  genius  in  the  arts  might  be 
permitted  by  Providence  to  labour  and  perish  uselessly  ; that 
in  the  very  fineness  of  it  there  might  be  something  rendering 
it  invisible  to  ordinary  eyes ; but,  that  with  this  strange  ex- 


110 


SESAME  AND  LILIES. 


cellence,  faults  might  be  mingled  which  would  be  as  deadly 
as  its  virtues  were  vain  ; that  the  glory  of  it  was  perishable, 
as  well  as  invisible,  and  the  gift  and  grace  of  it  might  be  to 
us,  as  snow  in  summer,  and  as  rain  in  harvest. 

103.  That  was  the  first  mystery  of  life  to  me.  But,  while 
my  best  energy  was  given  to  the  study  of  painting,  I had  put 
collateral  effort,  more  prudent,  if  less  enthusiastic,  into  that 
of  architecture  ; and  in  this  I could  not  complain  of  meeting 
with  no  sympathy.  Among  several  personal  reasons  which 
caused  me  to  desire  that  I might  give  this  my  closing  lecture 
on  the  subject  of  art  here,  in  Ireland,  one  of  the  chief  was, 
that  in  reading  it,  I should  stand  near  the  beautiful  building, 
— the  engineers’  school  of  your  college, — which  was  the  first 
realization  I had  the  joy  to  see,  of  the  principles  I had,  until 
then,  been  endeavouring  to  teach  ; but  which  alas,  is  now,  to 
me,  no  more  than  the  richly  canopied  monument  of  one  of 
the  most  earnest  souls  that  ever  gave  itself  to  the  arts,  and 
one  of  my  truest  and  most  loving  friends,  Benjamin  Wood- 
ward. Nor  was  it  here  in  Ireland  only  that  I received  the 
help  of  Irish  sympathy  and  genius.  When,  to  another  friend, 
Sir  Thomas  Deane,  with  Mr.  Woodward,  was  entrusted  the 
building  of  the  museum  at  Oxford,  the  best  details  of  the  work 
were  executed  by  scupltors  who  had  been  born  and  trained 
here  ; and  the  first  window  of  the  fayade  of  the  building,  in 
which  was  inaugurated  the  study  of  natural  science  in  Eng- 
land, in  true  fellowship  with  literature,  was  carved  from  my 
design  by  an  Irish  sculptor. 

104.  You  may  perhaps  think  that  no  man  ought  to  speak 
of  disappointment,  to  whom,  even  in  one  branch  of  labour,  so 
much  success  was  granted.  Had  Mr.  Woodward  now  been 
beside  me,  I had  not  so  spoken  ; but  his  gentle  and  passionate 
spirit  was  cut  off  from  the  fulfilment  of  its  purposes,  and  the 
work  Tve  did  together  is  now  become  vain.  It  may  not  be  so 
in  future  ; but  the  architecture  we  endeavoured  to  introduce 
is  inconsistent  alike  with  the  reckless  luxury,  the  deforming 
mechanism,  and  the  squalid  misery  of  modern  cities  ; among 
the  formative  fashions  of  the  day,  aided,  especially  in  England, 
by  ecclesiastical  sentiment,  it  indeed  obtained  notoriety  ; and 


THE  MYSTERY  OF  LIFE  AND  ITS  ARTS.  Ill 


sometimes  behind  an  engine  furnace,  or  a railroad  bank,  you 
may  detect  the  pathetic  discord  of  its  momentary  grace,  and, 
with  toil,  decipher  its  floral  carvings  choked  with  soot.  I 
felt  answerable  to  the  schools  I loved,  only  for  their  injury. 
1 perceived  that  this  new  portion  of  my  strength  had  also 
been  spent  in  vain  ; and  from  amidst  streets  of  iron,  and 
palaces  of  crystal,  shrank  back  at  last  to  the  carving  of  the 
mountain  and  colour  of  the  flower. 

105.  And  still  I could  tell  of  failure,  and  failure  repeated  as 
years  went  on  ; but  I have  trespassed  enough  on  your  patience 
to  show  you,  in  part,  the  causes  of  my  discouragement.  Now 
let  me  more  deliberately  tell  you  its  results.  You  know  there 
is  a tendency  in  the  minds  of  many  men,  when  they  are 
heavily  disappointed  in  the  main  purposes  of  their  life,  to  feel, 
and  perhaps  in  warning,  perhaps  in  mockery,  to  declare,  that 
life  itself  is  a vanity.  Because  it  has  disappointed  them,  they 
think  its  nature  is  of  disappointment  always,  or  at  besk  of 
pleasure  that  can  be  grasped  by  imagination  only  ; that  the 
cloud  of  it  has  no  strength  nor  fire  within  ; but  is  a painted 
cloud  only,  to  be  delighted  in,  yet  despised.  You  know 
how  beautifully  Pope  has  expressed  this  particular  phase  of 
thought : — 

“ Meanwhile  opinion  gilds,  with  varying  rays, 

These  painted  clouds  that  heautii'y  our  days ; 

Each  want  of  happiness  by  hope  supplied, 

And  each  vacuity  of  sense,  by  pride. 

Hope  builds  as  fast  as  Knowledge  can  destroy  ; 

In  Folly’s  cup,  still  laughs  the  bubble  joy. 

One  pleasure  past,  another  still  we  gain, 

And  not  a vanity  is  given  in  vain.’’ 

But  the  effect  of  failure  upon  my  own  mind  has  been  just  the 
reverse  of  this.  The  more  that  my  life  disappointed  me,  the 
more  solemn  and  wonderful  it  became  to  me.  It  seemed, 
contrarily  to  Pope’s  saying,  that  the  vanity  of  it  icas  indeed 
given  in  vain  ; but  that  there  was  something  behind  the  veil 
of  it,  which  was  not  vanity.  It  became  to  me  not  a painted 
cloud,  but  a terrible  and  impenetrable  one  : not  a mirage. 


112 


SESAME  AND  LILIES, 


which  vanished  as  I drew  near,  but  a pillar  of  darkness,  tc 
which  I was  forbidden  to  draw  near.  For  I saw  that  both  my 
own  failure,  and  such  success  in  petty  things  as  in  its  poor 
triumph  seemed  to  me  worse  than  failure,  came  from  the  want 
of  sufficiently  earnest  effort  to  understand  the  whole  law  and 
meaning  of  existence,  and  to  bring  it  to  noble  and  due  end  ; 
as,  on  the  other  hand,  I saw  more  and  more  clearly  that  all 
enduring  success  in  the  arts,  or  in  any  other  occupation,  had 
come  from  the  ruling  of  lower  purposes,  not  by  a conviction 
of  their  nothingness,  but  by  a solemn  faith  in  the  advancing 
power  of  human  nature,  or  in  the  promise,  however  dimly  ap- 
prehended, that  the  mortal  part  of  it  would  one  day  be  swal- 
lowed up  in  immortality  ; and  that,  indeed,  the  arts  themselves 
never  had  reached  any  vital  strength  or  honour  but  in  the 
effort  to  proclaim  this  immortality,  and  in  the  service  either 
of  great  and  just  religion,  or  of  some  unselfish  patriotism,  and 
law  of  such  national  life  as  must  be  the  foundation  of  religion, 

106.  Nothing  that  I have  ever  said  is  more  true  or  neces- 
sary— nothing  has  been  more  misunderstood  or  misapplied— 
than  my  strong  assertion,  that  the  arts  can  never  be  right 
themselves,  unless  their  motive  is  right.  It  is  misunderstood 
this  way  : weak  painters,  who  have  never  learned  their  busi- 
ness, and  cannot  lay  a true  line,  continually  come  to  me,  cry- 
ing out — “ Look  at  this  picture  of  mine  ; it  must  be  good,  I 
had  such  a lovely  motive.  I have  put  my  whole  heart  into  it, 
and  taken  years  to  think  over  its  treatment.”  Well,  the  only 
answer  for  these  people  is — if  one  had  the  cruelty  to  make  it 
— “ Sir,  you  cannot  think  over  am/thing  in  any  number  of 
years, — you  haven't  the  head  to  do  it ; and  though  you  had 
fine  motives,  strong  enough  to  make  you  burn  yourself  in  a 
slowT  fire,  if  only  first  you  could  paint  a picture,  you  can’t 
paint  one,  nor  half  an  inch  of  one  ; you  haven’t  the  hand  to 
do  it.” 

But,  far  more  decisively  we  have  to  say  to  the  men  who  da 
know  their  business,  or  may  know  it  if  they  choose — “Sir, 
you  have  this  gift  and  a mighty  one  ; see  that  you  serve  your 
nation  faithfully  with  it.  It  is  a greater  trust  than  ships  and 
armies  : you  might  cast  them  away,  if  you  were  their  captain 


THE  MYSTERY  OF  LIFE  AFD  ITS  ALTS.  113 

with  less  treason  to  your  people  than  in  casting  your  own 
glorious  power  away,  and  serving  the  devil  with  it  instead  ol 
men.  Ships  and  armies  you  may  replace  if  they  are  lost,  hut 
a great  intellect,  once  abused,  is  a curse  to  the  earth  for  ever/ 

107.  This,  then,  I meant  by  saying  that  the  arts  must  have 
noble  motive.  This  also  I said  respecting  them,  that  they 
never  had  prospered,  nor  could  prosper,  but  when  they  had 
such  true  purpose,  and  were  devoted  to  the  proclamation  of 
divine  truth  or  law.  And  yet  I saw  also  that  they  had  always 
failed  in  this  proclamation — that  poetry,  and  sculpture,  and 
painting,  though  only  great  when  they  strove  to  teach  us 
something  about  the  gods,  never  had  taught  us  anything 
trustworthy  about  the  gods,  but  had  always  betrayed  their 
trust  in  the  crisis  of  it,  and,  with  their  powers  at  the  full 
reach,  became  ministers  to  pride  and  to  lust.  And  I felt  also, 
with  increasing  amazement,  the  unconquerable  apathy  in  our- 
selves the  hearers,  no  less  than  in  these  the  teachers ; and 
that,  while  the  wisdom  and  rightness  of  every  act  and  art  of 
life  could  only  be  consistent  with  a right  understanding  oi 
the  ends  of  life,  we  were  all  plunged  as  in  a languid  dream — 
our  heart  fat,  and  our  eyes  heavy,  and  our  ears  closed,  lest 
the  inspiration  of  hand  or  voice  should  reach  us — lest  we 
should  see  with  our  eyes,  and  understand  with  our  hearts, 
and  be  healed. 

108.  This  intense  apathy  in  all  of  us  is  the  first  great  mys- 
tery of  life  ; it  stands  in  the  way  of  every  perception,  every 
virtue.  There  is  no  making  ourselves  feel  enough  astonish- 
ment at  it.  That  the  occupations  or  pastimes  of  life  should 
have  no  motive,  is  understandable  ; but — That  life  itself 
should  have  no  motive — that  we  neither  care  to  find  out  what 
it  may  lead  to,  nor  to  guard  against  its  being  for  ever  taken 
away  from  us— here  is  a mystery  indeed.  For,  just  suppose 
I were  able  to  call  at  this  moment  to  any  one  in  this  audi- 
ence by  name,  and  to  tell  him  positively  that  I knew  a large 
estate  had  been  lately  left  to  him  on  some  curious  conditions  ; 
but  that,  though  I knew  it  was  large,  I did  not  know  how 
large,  nor  even  where  it  was — whether  in  the  East  Indies  or 
the  West,  or  in  England^  or  at  the  Antipodes.  I only  knew  it 


1 u 


SESAME  AND  LILIES 


was  a vast  estate,  and  that  there  V7as  a chance  of  his  losing 
altogether  if  he  did  not  soon  find  out  on  what  terms  it  had 
been  left  to  him.  Suppose  I were  able  to  say  this  positively 
to  any  single  man  in  this  audience,  and  he  knew  that  I did 
not  speaK  without  warrant,  do  you  think  that  he  would  rest 
content  with  that  vague  knowledge,  if  it  were  anywise  pos 
sible  to  obtain  more?  Would  he  not  give  every  energy  to 
find  some  trace  of  the  facts,  and  never  rest  till  he  had  ascer- 
tained where  this  place  was,  and  what  it  was  like  ? And  sup- 
pose he  were  a young  man,  and  all  he  could  discover  by  his 
best  endeavour  was,  that  the  estate  was  never  to  be  his  at  all 
unless  he  persevered,  during  certain  years  of  probation,  in  an, 
orderly  and  industrious  life  ; but  that,  according  to  the  right- 
ness of  his  conduct,  the  portion  of  the  estate  assigned  to  him 
would  be  greater  or  less,  so  that  it  literally  depended  on  his 
behaviour  from  day  to  day  whether  he  got  ten  thousand  a 
year,  or  thirty  thousand  a year,  or  nothing  whatever — would 
you  not  think  it  strange  if  the  youth  never  troubled  himself 
to  satisfy  the  conditions  in  any  way,  nor  even  to  know  what 
was  required  of  him,  but  lived  exactly  as  he  chose,  and  never 
inquired  whether  his  chances  of  the  estate  wTere  increasing  or 
passing  away?  Well,  you  know  that  this  is  actually  and  lit- 
erally so  with  the  greater  number  of  the  educated  persons 
now  living  in  Christian  countries.  Nearly  every  man  and 
woman,  in  any  company  such  as  this,  outwardly  professes  to 
believe — and  a large  number  unquestionably  think  they  be- 
lieve— much  more  than  this  ; not  only  that  a quite  unlimited 
estate  is  in  prospect  for  them  if  they  please  the  Holder  of  it, 
but  that  the  infinite  contrary  of  such  a possession — an  estate 
of  perpetual  misery,  is  in  store  for  them  if  they  displease  this 
great  Land-Holder,  this  great  Heaven-Holder.  And  yet  there 
is  not  one  in  a thousand  of  these  human  souls  that  cares  to 
think,  foi  ten  minutes  of  the  day,  where  this  estate  is,  or  how 
beautiful  it  is,  or  what  kind  of  life  they  are  to  lead  in  it,  or 
what  kind  of  life  they  must  lead  to  obtain  it. 

109.  You  fancy  that  you  care  to  know  this  : so  little  do 
you  care  that,  probably,  at  this  moment  many  of  you  are  dis- 
pleased with  me  for  talking  of  the  matter  ! You  came  to  hear 


TEE  MYSTERY  OF  LIFE  AND  ITS  ARTS.  115 


about  the  Art  of  this  world,  not  about  the  Life  of  the  next, 
and  you  are  provoked  with  me  for  talking  of  what  you  can 
hear  any  Sunday  in  church.  But  do  not  be  afraid.  I will  tell 
you  something  before  you  go  about  pictures,  and  carvings, 
and  pottery,  and  what  else  you  would  like  better  to  hear  of 
than  the  other  world.  Nay,  perhaps  you  say,  “We  want  you 
to  talk  of  pictures  and  pottery,  because  we  are  sure  that  you 
know  something  of  them,  and  you  know  nothing  of  the  other 
world.”  Well — I don’t.  That  is  quite  true.  But  the  very 
strangeness  and  mystery  of  which  I urge  you  to  take  notice  is 
in  this — that  I do  not ; — nor  you  either.  Can  you  answer  a 
single  bold  question  unflinchingly  about  that  other  world— 
Are  you  sure  there  is  a heaven  ? Sure  there  is  a hell  ? Sure 
that  men  are  dropping  before  your  faces  through  the  pave- 
ments of  these  streets  into  eternal  fire,  or  sure  that  they  are 
not  ? Sure  that  at  your  own  death  you  are  going  to  be  de- 
livered from  all  sorrow,  to  be  endowed  with  all  virtue,  to  be 
gifted  with  all  felicity,  and  raised  into  perpetual  companion' 
ship  with  a King,  compared  to  whom  the  kings  of  the  earth 
are  as  grasshoppers,  and  the  nations  as  the  dust  of  His  feet? 
Are  you  sure  of  this  ? or,  if  not  sure,  do  any  of  us  so  much 
as  care  to  make  it  sure  ? and,  if  not,  how  can  anything  that 
we  do  be  right — how  can  anything  we  think  be  wise  ; what 
honor  can  there  be  in  the  arts  that  amuse  us,  or  what  profit 
in  the  possessions  that  please  ? 

Is  not  this  a mystery  of  life  ? 

110.  But  farther,  you  may,  perhaps,  think  it  a beneficent 
ordinance  for  the  generality  of  men  that  they  do  not,  with 
earnestness  or  anxiety,  dwell  on  such  questions  of  the  future ; 
because  the  business  of  the  day  could  not  be  done  if  this  kind 
of  thought  were  taken  by  all  of  us  for  the  morrow.  Be  it  so : 
but  at  least  we  might  anticipate  that  the  greatest  and  wisest 
of  us,  who  were  evidently  the  appointed  teachers  of  the  rest, 
would  set  themselves  apart  to  seek  out  whatever  could  be 
surely  known  of  the  future  destinies  of  their  race  ; and  to 
teach  this  in  no  rhetorical  or  ambiguous  manner,  but  in  the 
plainest  and  most  severely  earnest  words. 

Now,  the  highest  representatives  of  men  who  have  thus  en* 


116 


SESAME  AND  LILIES. 


deavoured,  during  the  Christian  era,  to  search  out  these  deej 
things,  and  relate  them,  are  Dante  and  Milton.  There  are 
none  who  for  earnestness  of  thought,  for  mastery  of  word, 
can  be  classed  with  these.  I am  not  at  present,  mind  you, 
speaking  of  persons  set  apart  in  any  priestly  or  pastoral  of- 
fice, to  deliver  creeds  to  us,  or  doctrines  ; but  of  men  who 
try  to  discover  and  set  forth,  as  far  as  by  human  intellect  is 
possible,  the  facts  of  the  other  world.  Divines  may  perhaps 
teach  us  how  to  arrive  there,  but  only  these  two  poets  have  in 
any  powerful  manner  striven  to  discover,  or  in  any  definite 
words  professed  to  tell,  what  we  shall  see  and  become  there  : 
or  how  those  upper  and  nether  worlds  are,  and  have  been,  in- 
habited. 

111.  And  what  have  they  told  us?  Milton’s  account  of  the 
most  important  event  in  his  whole  system  of  the  universe,  the 
fall  of  the  angels,  is  evidently  unbelievable  to  himself  ; and 
the  more  so,  that  it  is  wholly  founded  on,  and  in  a great  part 
spoiled  and  degraded  from,  Hesiod’s  account  of  the  decisive 
war  of  the  younger  gods  with  the  Titans.  The  rest  of  his 
poem  is  a picturesque  drama,  in  which  every  artifice  of  in- 
vention is  visibly  and  consciously  employed,  not  a single  fact 
being,  for  an  instant,  conceived  as  tenable  by  any  living  faith. 
Dante’s  conception  is  far  more  intense,  and,  by  himself,  for 
the  time,  not  to  be  escaped  from  ; it  is  indeed  a vision,  but  a 
vision  only,  and  that  one  of  the  wildest  that  ever  entranced  a 
soul — a dream  in  which  every  grotesque  type  or  phantasy  of 
heathen  tradition  is  renewed,  and  adorned  ; and  the  destinies 
of  the  Christian  Church,  under  their  most  sacred  symbols,  be- 
come literally  subordinate  to  the  praise,  and  are  only  to  be 
understood  by  the  aid,  of  one  dear  Florentine  maiden. 

112.  I tell  you  truly  that,  as  I strive  more  with  this  strange 
lethargy  and  trance  in  myself,  and  awake  to  the  meaning  and 
power  of  life,  it  seems  daily  more  amazing  to  me  that  men 
such  as  these  should  dare  to  play  with  the  most  precious 
truths  (or  the  most  deadly  untruths),  by  which  the  whole 
human  race  listening  to  them  could  be  informed,  or  deceived  / 
— all  the  world  their  audiences  for  ever,  with  pleased  ear,  and 
passionate  heart  ;• — and  yet,  to  this  submissive  infinitude  of 


TEE  MYSTERY  OF  LIFE  AND  ITS  ARTS.  117 


souls,  and  evermore  succeeding  and  succeeding  multitude, 
hungry  for  bread  of  life,  they  do  but  play  upon  sweetly  modm 
lated  pipes  ; with  pompous  nomenclature  adorn  the  councils 
of  hell ; touch  a troubadour’s  guitar  to  the  courses  of  the  suns  ; 
and  fill  the  openings  of  eternity,  before  which  prophets  have 
veiled  their  faces,  and  which  angels  desire  to  look  into,  with 
idle  puppets  of  their  scholastic  imagination,  and  melancholy 
lights  of  frantic  faith  in  their  lost  mortal  love. 

Is  not  this  a mystery  of  life  ? 

113.  But  more.  We  have  to  remember  that  these  two  great 
teachers  were  both  of  them  warped  in  their  temper,  and 
thwarted  in  their  search  for  truth.  They  were  men  of  intel- 
lectual war,  unable,  through  darkness  of  controversy,  or  stress 
of  personal  grief,  to  discern  where  their  own  ambition  modi- 
fied their  utterances  of  the  moral  law  ; or  their  own  agony 
mingled  with  their  anger  at  its  violation.  But  greater  men 
than  these  have  been — innocent-hearted — too  great  for  con- 
test. Men,  like  Homer  and  Shakespeare,  of  so  unrecognized 
personality,  that  it  disappears  in  future  ages,  and  becomes 
ghostly,  like  the  tradition  of  a lost  heathen  god.  Men,  there- 
fore, to  whose  unoffended,  uncondemning  sight,  the  whole  of 
human  nature  reveals  itself  in  a pathetic  weakness,  with  which 
they  will  not  strive  ; or  in  mouruful  and  transitory  strength, 
which  they  dare  not  praise.  And  all  Pagan  and  Christian 
civilization  thus  becomes  subject  to  them.  It  does  not  matter 
how  little,  or  how  much,  any  of  us  have  read,  either  of  Homer 
or  Shakespeare  : everything  round  us,  in  substance,  or  in 
thought,  has  been  moulded  by  them.  All  Greek  gentlemen 
were  educated  under  Homer.  All  Boman  gentlemen,  by 
Greek  literature.  All  Italian,  and  French,  and  English  gen- 
tlemen, by  Roman  literature,  and  by  its  principles.  Of  the 
scope  of  Shakespeare,  I will  say  only,  that  the  intellectual 
measure  of  every  man  since  born,  in  the  domains  of  creative 
thought,  may  be  assigned  to  him,  according  to  the  degree  in 
which  he  has  been  taught  by  Shakespeare.  Wrell,  what  do 
these  two  men,  centres  of  moral  intelligence,  deliver  to  us  of 
conviction  respecting  what  it  most  behoves  that  intelligence 
to  grasp  ? What  is  their  hope ; their  crown  of  rejoicing ! 

8 


118 


SESAME  AND  LILIES. 


what  manner  of  exhortation  have  they  for  us,  or  of  rebuke! 
what  lies  next  their  own  hearts,  and  dictates  their  undying 
words  ? Have  they  any  peace  to  promise  to  our  unrest — any 
redemption  to  our  misery? 

114.  Take  Homer  first,  and  think  if  there  is  any  sadder 
image  of  human  fate  than  the  great  Homeric  story.  The 
main  features  in  the  character  of  Achilles  are  its  intense  de- 
sire of  justice,  and  its  tenderness  of  affection.  And  in  that 
bitter  song  of  the  Iliad,  this  man,  though  aided  continually 
by  the  wisest  of  the  gods,  and  burning  with  the  desire  of  jus- 
tice in  his  heart,  becomes  yet,  through  ill-governed  passion, 
the  most  unjust  of  men : and,  full  of  the  deepest  tenderness 
in  his  heart,  becomes  yet,  through  ill-governed  passion,  the 
most  cruel  of  men.  Intense  alike  in  love  and  in  friendship, 
he  loses,  first  his  mistress,  and  then  his  friend ; for  the  sake 
of  the  one,  he  surrenders  to  death  the  armies  of  his  own  land  ; 
for  the  sake  of  the  other,  he  surrenders  all.  Will  a man  lay 
down  his  life  for  his  friend?  Yea — even  for  his  dead  friend, 
this  Achilles,  though  goddess-born,  and  goddess-taught,  gives 
up  his  kingdom,  his  country,  and  his  life — casts  alike  the  in- 
nocent and  guilty,  with  himself,  into  one  gulf  of  slaughter, 
and  dies  at  last  by  the  hand  of  the  basest  of  his  adversaries. 
Is  not  this  a mystery  of  life  ? 

115.  But  what,  then,  is  the  message  to  us  of  our  own  poet, 
and  searcher  of  hearts,  after  fifteen  hundred  years  of  Chris- 
tian faith  have  been  numbered  over  the  graves  of  men  ? Are 
his  words  more  cheerful  than  the  heathen’s — is  his  hope 
more  near — his  trust  more  sure — his  reading  of  fate  more 
happy  ? All,  no  ! He  differs  from  the  Heathen  poet  chiefly 
in  this — that  he  recognizes,  for  deliverance,  no  gods  nigh  at 
hand ; and  that,  by  petty  chance — by  momentary  folly— by 
broken  message — by  fool’s  tyranny — or  traitor’s  snare,  the 
strongest  and  most  righteous  are  brought  to  their  ruin,  and 
perish  without  word  of  hope.  He  indeed,  as  part  of  his  ren- 
dering of  character,  ascribes  the  power  and  modesty  of  habit- 
ual devotion,  to  the  gentle  and  the  just.  The  death-bed  of 
Katharine  is  bright  with  vision  of  angels  ; and  the  great  sol- 
dier-king, standing  by  his  few  d_ead,  acknowledges  the  pres 


THE  MYSTERY  OF  LIFE  AND  ITS  ARTS.  119 


ence  of  the  hand  that  can  save  alike  by  many  or  by  few.  But 
observe  that  from  those  who  with  deepest  spirit,  meditate, 
and  with  deepest  passion,  mourn,  there  are  no  such  words  as 
these  ; nor  in  their  hearts  are  any  such  consolations  Instead 
of  the  perpetual  sense  of  the  helpful  presence  of  the  Deity, 
which,  through  all  heathen  tradition,  is  the  source  of  heroic 
strength,  in  battle,  in  exile,  and  in  the  valley  of  the  shadow 
of  death,  we  find  only  in  the  great  Christian  poet,  the  con- 
sciousness of  a moral  law,  through  which  “ the  gods  are  just, 
and  of  our  pleasant  vices  make  instruments  to  scourge  us  ; ” 
and  of  the  resolved  arbitration  of  the  destinies,  that  conclude 
into  precision  of  doom  what  we  feebly  and  blindly  began ; 
and  force  us,  when  our  indiscretion  serves  us,  and  our  deep- 
est plots  do  pall,  to  the  confession,  that  “there’s  a divinity 
that  shapes  our  ends,  rough  hew  them  how  we  will” 

Is  not  this  a mystery  of  life  ? 

116.  Be  it  so  then.  About  this  human  life  that  is  to  be, 
or  that  is,  the  wise  religious  men  tell  us  nothing  that  we  can 
trust ; and  the  wise  contemplative  men,  nothing  that  can  give 
us  peace.  But  there  is  yet  a third  class,  to  whom  wre  may 
turn — the  wise  practical  men.  We  have  sat  at  the  feet  of  the 
poets  who  sang  of  heaven,  and  they  have  told  us  their  dreams. 
We  have  listened  to  the  poets  who  sang  of  earth,  and  they 
have  chanted  to  us  dirges,  and  words  of  despair.  But  there 
is  one  class  of  men  more  : — men,  not  capable  of  vision,  nor 
sensitive  to  sorrow,  but  firm  of  purpose — practised  in  busi- 
ness : learned  in  all  that  can  be,  (by  handling, — ) known. 
Men  whose  hearts  and  hopes  are  wholly  in  this  present  world, 
from  whom,  therefore,  we  may  surely  learn,  at  least,  how,  at 
present,  conveniently  to  live  in  it.  "What  will  they  say  to  us, 
or  show  us  by  example?  These  kings — these  councillors — 
these  statesmen  and  builders  of  kingdoms — these  capitalist 
and  men  of  business,  who  weigh  the  earth,  and  the  dust  of 
it,  in  a balance.  They  knowr  the  world,  surely ; and  what  is 
the  mystery  of  life  to  us,  is  none  to  them.  They  can  surely 
show  us  how  to  live,  wThile  we  live,  and  to  gather  out  of  the 
present  world  what  is  best. 

117  I think  I can  best  tell  you  their  answer,  by  telling  you 


120 


SESAME  AND  LILIES. 


a dream  I had  once.  For  though  I am  no  poet,  I have  dream* 
sometimes  : — I dreamed  I was  at  a child’s  May-day  party,  in 
which  every  means  of  entertainment  had  been  provided  for 
them,  by  a wise  and  kind  host.  It  was  in  a stately  house, 
with  beautiful  gardens  attached  to  it ; and  the  children  had 
been  set  free  in  the  rooms  and  gardens,  with  no  care  what- 
ever but  how  to  pass  their  afternoon  rejoicingly.  They  did 
not,  indeed,  know  much  about  wThat  was  to  happen  next 
day  ; and  some  of  them,  I thought,  were  a little  frightened, 
because  there  was  a chance  of  their  being  sent  to  a new  school 
where  there  wrere  examinations  ; but  they  kept  the  thoughts 
of  that  out  of  their  heads  as  well  as  they  could,  and  resolved 
to  enjoy  themselves.  The  house,  I said,  was  in  a beautiful  gar- 
den, and  in  the  garden  were  all  kinds  of  flowers  ; sweet  grassy 
banks  for  rest ; and  smooth  lawns  for  play  ; and  pleasant 
streams  and  woods  ; and  rocky  places  for  climbing.  And  the 
children  were  happy  for  a little  while,  but  presently  they 
separated  themselves  into  parties;  and  then  each  party  de- 
clared, it  would  have  a piece  of  the  garden  for  its  own,  and  that 
none  of  the  others  should  have  anything  to  do  with  that  piece. 
Next,  they  quarrelled  violently,  which  pieces  they  would  have  ; 
and  at  last  the  boys  took  up  the  thing,  as  boys  should  do, 
“practically,”  and  fought  in  the  flower-beds  till  there  was 
hardly  a flower  left  standing  ; then  they  trampled  down  each 
other’s  bits  of  the  garden  out  of  spite  ; and  the  girls  cried  till 
they  could  cry  no  more  ; and  so  they  all  lay  down  at  last 
breathless  in  the  ruin,  and  waited  for  the  time  when  they 
were  to  be  taken  home  in  the  evening.* 

118.  Meanwhile,  the  children  in  the  house  had  been  making 
themselves  happy  also  in  their  manner.  For  them,  there  had 
been  provided  every  kind  of  in- doors  pleasure  : there  was 
music  for  them  to  dance  to ; and  the  library  was  open,  with 
all  manner  of  amusing  books  ; and  there  was  a museum,  full 
of  the  most  curious  shells,  and  animals,  and  birds ; and  there 
was  a workshop,  with  lathes  and  carpenter’s  tools,  for  the  in> 

* I have  sometimes  been  asked  what  this  means.  I intended  it  to  set 
forth  the  wisdom  of  men  in  war  contending  for  kingdoms,  and  what  fob 
icws  to  set  forth  their  wisdom  in  peace,  contending  for  wealth.  ^ 


THE  MYSTERY  OF  LIFE  AND  ITS  ARTS.  121 


genious  boys;  and  there  were  pretty  fantastic  dresses,  for  the 
girls  to  dress  in ; and  there  were  microscopes,  and  kaleido- 
scopes ; and  whatever  toys  a child  could  fancy ; and  a table, 
in  the  dining-room,  loaded  with  everything  nice  to  eat. 

But,  in  the  midst  of  all  this,  it  struck  two  or  three  of  the 
more  “ practical”  children,  that  they  would  like  some  of  the 
brass-headed  nails  that  studded  the  chairs ; and  so  they  set  to 
work  to  pull  them  out.  Presently,  the  others,  who  were  read- 
ing, or  looking  at  shells,  took  a fancy  to  do  the  like ; and,  in 
a little  while,  all  the  children  nearly,  were  spraining  their  fin- 
gers, in  pulling  out  brass-headed  nails.  With  all  that  they 
could  pull  out,  they  were  not  satisfied;  and  then,  everybody 
wanted  some  of  somebody  else’s.  And  at  last  the  really  prac- 
tical and  sensible  ones  declared,  that  nothing  was  of  any  real 
consequence,  that  afternoon,  except  to  get  plenty  of  brass- 
headed nails ; and  that  the  books,  and  the  cakes,  and  the  mi- 
croscopes were  of  no  use  at  all  in  themselves,  but  only,  if  they 
could  be  exchanged  for  nail-heads.  And,  at  last  they  began 
to  fight  for  nail-heads,  as  the  others  fought  for  the  bits  of 
garden.  Only  here  and  there,  a despised  one  shrank  away 
into  a corner,  and  tried  to  get  a little  quiet  with  a book,  in 
the  midst  of  the  noise  ; but  all  the  practical  ones  thought  of 
nothing  else  but  counting  nail-heads  all  the  afternoon — even 
though  they  knew  they  would  not  be  allowed  to  carry  so  much 
as  one  brass  knob  away  with  them.  But  no — it  was — “ who 
has  most  nails  ? I have  a hundred,  and  you  have  fifty  ; or,  I 
have  a thousand  and  you  have  two.  I must  have  as  many  as 
you  before  I leave  the  house,  or  I cannot  possibly  go  home  in 
peace.”  At  last,  they  made  so  much  noise  that  I awoke,  and 
thought  to  myself,  “What  a false  dream  that  is,  of  children.” 
The  child  is  the  father  of  the  man  ; and  wiser.  Children 
never  do  such  foolish  things.  Only  men  do. 

119.  But  there  is  yet  one  last  class  of  persons  to  be  inter- 
rogated. The  wise  religious  mqn  we  have  asked  in  vain  ; the 
wise  contemplative  men,  in  vain  ; the  wise  worldly  men,  in 
Vain.  But  there  is  another  group  yet.  In  the  midst  of  this 
vanity  of  empty  religion — of  tragic  contemplation — of  wrath- 
ful and  wretched  ambition,  and  dispute  for  dust,  there  is  yet 


122 


SESAME  AND  LILIES. 


one  great  group  of  persons,  by  whom  all  these  disputers  live 
—the  persons  who  have  determined,  or  have  had  it  by  a 
beneficent  Providence  determined  for  them,  that  they  will  do  i 
something  useful ; that  whatever  may  be  prepared  for  them  1 
hereafter,  or  happen  to  them  here,  they  will,  at  least,  deserve  : 
the  food  that  God  gives  them  by  winning  it  honourably  ; and  ; 
that,  however  fallen  from  the  purity,  or  far  from  the  peace,  i 
of  Eden,  they  will  carry  out  the  duty  of  human  dominion,  j 
though  they  have  lost  its  felicity ; and  dress  and  keep  the  I 
wilderness,  though  they  no  more  can  dress  or  keep  the 
garden. 

These, — hewers  of  wood,  and  drawers  of  water — these  bent 
under  burdens,  or  torn  of  scourges — these,  that  dig  and  j 
weaye — that  plant  and  build  ; workers  in  wood,  and  in 
marble,  and  in  iron — by  whom  all  food,  clothing,  habitation, 
furniture,  and  means  of  delight  are  produced,  for  themselves,  j 
and  for  all  men  beside  ; men,  whose  deeds  are  good,  though 
their  words  may  be  few  ; men,  whose  lives  are  serviceable, 
be  they  never  so  short,  and  worthy  of  honour,  be  they  never  j 
so  humble  ; — from  these,  surely  at  least,  we  may  receive  some  j 
clear  message  of  teaching  : and  pierce,  for  an  instant,  into  j 
the  mystery  of  life,  and  of  its  arts. 

120.  Yes  ; from  these,  at  last,  we  do  receive  a lesson.  But 
I grieve  to  say,  or  rather— for  that  is  the  deeper  truth  of  the 
matter — I rejoice  to  say — this  message  of  theirs  can  only  be  i 
received  by  joining  them — not  by  thinking  about  them. 

You  sent  for  me  to  talk  to  you  of  art ; and  I have  obeyed 
you  in  coming.  But  the  main  thing  I have  to  tell  you  is,  | 
that  art  must  not  be  talked  about.  The  fact  that  there  is 
talk  about  it  all,  signifies  that  it  is  ill  done,  or  cannot  be 
done.  No  true  painter  ever  speaks,  or  ever  has  spoiien, 
much  of  his  art.  The  greatest  speak  nothing.  Even  BeyJ 
nolds  is  no  exception,  for  he  wrote  of  all  that  he  could  not 
himself  do,  and  was  utterly  silent  respecting  all  that  he  him* 
self  did.  c - 

The  moment  a man  can  really  do  his  work,  he  becomes! 
speechless  about  it.  All  words  become  idle  to  him— all  theo- 


TEE  MYSTERY  OF  LIFE  AND  ITS  ARTS.  123“ 


121.  Does  a bird  need  to  tlieorize  about  building  its  nest, 
or  boast  of  it  when  built  ? All  good  work  is  essentially  done 
that  way — without  hesitation,  without  difficulty,  without  boast- 
ing ; and  in  the  doers  of  the  best,  there  is  an  inner  and  invol- 
untary power  which  approximates  literally  to  the  instinct  of 
an  animal — nay,  I am  certain  that  in  the  most  perfect  human 
artists,  reason  does  not  supersede  .instinct,  but  is  added  to  an 
instinct  as  much  more  divine  than  that  of  the  lower  animals 
as  the  human  body  is  more  beautiful  than  theirs  ; that  a great 
singer  sings  not  with  less  instinct  than  the  nightingale,  but 
with  more — only  more  various,  applicable,  and  governable  ; 
that  a great  architect  doe3  not  build  with  less  instinct  than  the 
beaver  or  the  bee,  but  with  more— with  an  innate  cunning  of 
proportion  that  embraces  all  beauty,  and  a divine  ingenuity  of 
skill  that  improvises  all  construction.  But  be  that  as  it  may 
■ — be  the  instinct  less  or  more  than  that  of  inferior  animals — 
like  or  unlike  theirs,  still  the  human  art  is  dependent  on  that 
first,  and  then  upon  an  amount  of  practice,  of  science, — and  of 
imagination  disciplined  by  thought,  which  the  true  possessor 
of  it  knows  to  be  incommunicable,  and  the  true  critic  of  it, 
inexplicable,  except  through  long  process  of  laborious  years. 
That  journey  of  life’s  conquest,  in  which  hills  over  hills,  and 
Alps  on  Alps  arose,  and  sank, — do  you  think  you  can  make 
another  trace  it  painlessly,  by  talking  ? Why,  you  cannot  even 
carry  us  up  an  Alp,  by  talking.  You  can  guide  us  up  it, 
step  by  step,  no  otherwise — even  so,  best  silently.  You 
girls,  who  have  been  among  the  hills,  know  how  the  bad  guide 
chatters  and  gesticulates,  and  it  is  “ put  your  foot  here,”  and 
“ mind  how  you  balance  yourself  there  ; ” but  the  good  guide 
walks  on  quietly,  without  a -word,  only  with  his  eyes  on  you 
when  need  is,  and  his  arm  like  an  iron  bar,  if  need  be. 

122.  In  that  slow  way,  also,  art  can  be  taught — if  you 
have  faith  in  your  guide,  and  will  let  his  arm  be  to  you  as  an 
iron  bar  when  need  is.  But  in  what  teacher  of  art  have  you 
such  faith  ? Certainly  not  in  me  ; for,  as  I told  you  at  first, 
I know  well  enough  it  is  only  because  you  think  I can  talk, 
not  because  you  think  I know  my  business,  that  you  let  me 
speak  to  you  at  all.  If  I were  to  tell  you  anything  that  seemed 


124 


SESAME  AND  LILIES. 


to  yon  strange.  3' ou  would  not  believe  it,  and  yet  it  would  only 
be  in  telling  you  strange  tilings  that  I could  be  of  use  to  you. 
I could  be  of  great  use  to  you — infinite  use,  with  brief  saying, 
if  you  would  believe  it ; but  you  would  not,  just  because  the 
thing  that  would  be  of  real  use  would  displease  you.  You 
are  all  wild,  for  instance,  with  admiration  of  Gustave  Dore. 
Well,  suppose  I were  to  tell  you  in  the  strongest  terms  I could 
use,  that  Gustave  Dore’s  art  was  bad — bad,  not  in  weakness, 
— not  in  failure, — but  bad  with  dreadful  power — the  power  of 
the  Furies  and  the  Harpies  mingled,  enraging,  and  polluting ; 
that  so  long  as  you  looked  at  it,  no  perception  of  pure  or 
beautiful  art  was  possible  for  you.  Suppose  I were  to  tell 
you  that ! What  would  be  the  use?  Would  you  look  at  Gus- 
tave Dore  less?  Bather  more,  I fancy.  On  the  other  hand, 
I could  soon  put  you  into  good  humour  with  me,  if  I chose. 
I know  well  enough  what  you  like,  and  how  to  praise  it  to 
your  better  liking.  I could  talk  to  you  about  moonlight,  and 
twilight,  and  spring  flowers,  and  autumn  leaves,  and  the  Ma- 
donnas of  Bapliael — how  motherly  ! and  the  Sibyls  of  Michael 
Angelo — how  majestic  ! and  the  saints  of  Angelico — how 
pious  ! and  the  Cherubs  of  Correggio — how  delicious  ! Old 
as  I am,  I could  play  you  a tune  on  the  harp  yet,  that  you  would 
dance  to.  But  neither  you  nor  I should  be  a bit  the  better 
or  wiser ; or,  if  we  were,  our  increased  wisdom  could  be  of 
no  practical  effect.  For,  indeed,  the  arts,  as  regards  teach- 
ableness, differ  from  the  sciences  also  in  this,  that  their  power 
is  founded  not  merely  on  facts  which  can  be  communicated, 
but  on  dispositions  which  require  to  be  created.  Art  is 
neither  to  be  achieved  by  effort  of  thinking-,  nor  explained  by 
accuracy  of  speaking.  It  is  the  instinctive  and  necessary  re- 
sult of  powers  which  can  only  be  developed  through  the  mind 
of  successive  generations,  and  which  finally  burst  into  life 
under  social  conditions  as  slow  of  growth  as  the  faculties  they 
regulate.  Whole  eeras  of  mighty  history  are  summed,  and  tlie 
passions  of  dead  myriads  are  concentrated,  in  the  existence  or 
a noble  art ; and  if  that  noble  art  were  among  us,  we  should 
feel  it  and  rejoice  ; not  caring  in  the  least  to  hear  lectures  on 
it ; and  since  it  is  not  among  us,  be  assured  we  have  to  go 


THE  MYSTERY  GF  LIFE  AND  ITS  ARTS.  125 


back  to  the  root  of  it,  or,  at  least,  to  the  place  where  the 
stock  of  it  is  yet  alive,  and  the  branches  began  to  die. 

123.  And  now,  may  I have  your  pardon  for  pointing  out, 
partly  with  reference  to  matters  which  are  at  this  time  of 
greater  moment  than  the  arts — that  if  we  undertook  such 
recession  to  the  vital  germ  of  national  arts  that  have  decayed, 
we  should  find  a more  singular  arrest  of  their  power  in  Ire- 
land than  in  any  other  European  country.  For  in  the  eighth 
century,  Ireland  possessed  a school  of  art  in  her  manuscripts 
and  sculpture,  which,  in  many  of  its  qualities — apparently 
in  all  essential  qualities  of  decorative  invention — was  quite 
without  rival  ; seeming  as  if  it  might  have  advanced  to  the 
highest  triumphs  in  architecture  and  in  painting.  But  there 
was  one  fatal  flaw  in  its  nature,  by  which  it  was  stayed,  and 
stayed  with  a conspicuousness  of  pause  to  which  there  is  no 
parallel : so  that,  long  ago,  in  tracing  the  progress  of  Euro- 
pean schools  from  infancy  to  strength,  I chose  for  the  stu- 
dents of  Kensington,  in  a lecture  since  published,  two  charac- 
teristic examples  of  early  art,  of  equal  skill ; but  in  the  one 
case,  skill  which  was  progressive — in  the  other,  skill  which 
was  at  pause.  In  the  one  case,  it  was  work  receptive  of  cor- 
rection— hungry  for  correction — and  in  the  other,  work  which 
inherently  rejected  correction.  I chose  for  them  a corrigible 
Eve,  and  an  incorrigible  Angel,  and  I grieve  to  say  that  the 
incorrigible  Angel  was  also  an  Irish  angel ! * 

124.  And  the  fatal  difference  lay  wholly  in  this.  In  both 
pieces  of  art  there  was  an  equal  falling  short  of  the  needs  of 
fact ; but  the  Lombardic  Eve  knew  she  jvas  in  the  wrong,  and 
the  Irish  Angel  thought  himself  ail  right.  The  eager  Lom- 
bardic sculptor,  though  firmly  insisting  on  his  childish  idea, 
yet  showed  in  the  irregular  broken  touches  of  the  features, 
and  the  imperfect  struggle  for  softer  lines  in  the  form,  a per- 
ception of  beauty  and  law  that  he  could  not  render  ; there 
was  the  strain  of  effort,  under  conscious  imperfection,  in 
every  line.  But  the  Irish  missal-painter  had  drawn  his  angel 
with  no  sense  of  failure,  in  happy  complacency,  and  put  red 
dots  into  the  palms  of  each  hand,  and  rounded  the  eyes  into 

* See  The  Two  Paths , p.  27. 


126 


SESAME  AND  LILIES. 


perfect  circles,  and,  I regret  to  say,  left  the  mouth  out  alto« 
gether,  with  perfect  satisfaction  to  himself. 

125.  May  I without  offence  ask  you  to  consider  whether 
this  mode  of  arrest  in  ancient  Irish  art  may  not  be  indicative 
of  points  of  character  which  even  yet,  in  some  measure,  ar- 
rest your  national  power  ? I have  seen  much  of  Irish  char- 
acter, and  have  watched  it  closely,  for  I have  also  much 
loved  it.  And  I think  the  form  of  failure  to  which  it  is  most 
liable  is  this,  that  being  generous-hearted,  and  wholly  intend- 
ing always  to  do  right,  it  does  not  attend  to  the  external  laws 
of  right,  but  thinks  it  must  necessarily  do  right  because  it 
means  to  do  so,  and  therefore  does  wrong  without  finding  it 
out ; and  then  when  the  consequences  of  its  WTong  come 
upon  it,  or  upon  others  connected  with  it,  it  cannot  conceive 
that  the  wrong  is  in  anywise  of  its  causing  or  of  its  doing, 
but  flies  into  wrath,  and  a strange  agony  of  desire  for  jus- 
tice, as  feeling  itself  wholly  innocent,  which  leads  it  farther 
astray,  until  there  is  nothing  that  it  is  not  capable  of  doing 
with  a good  conscience. 

126.  But  mind,  I do  not  mean  to  say  that,  in  past  or  pres- 
ent relations  between  Ireland  and  England,  you  have  been 
wrong,  and  we  right.  Far  from  that,  I believe  that  in  all 
great  questions  of  principle,  and  in  all  details  of  administra- 
tion of  law%  you  have  been  usually  right,  and  we  wrong  ; 
sometimes  in  misunderstanding  you,  sometimes  in  resolute 
iniquity  to  you.  Nevertheless,  in  all  disputes  between  states, 
though  the  strongest  is  nearly  always  mainly  in  the  wrong, 
the  weaker  is  often  sq  in  a minor  degree  ; and  I think  wre 
sometimes  admit  the  possibility  of  our  being  in  error,  and 
you  never  do. 

127.  And  now/,  returning  to  the  broader  question  what 
these  arts  and  labours  of  life  have  to  teach  us  of  its  mysterj^, 
this  is  the  first  of  their  lessons — that  the  more  beautiful  the 
art,  the  more  it  is  essentially  the  work  of  people  who  feel 
themselves  wrong ; — wTho  are  striving  for  the  fulfilment  of  a 
law,  and  the  grasp  of  a loveliness,  which  they  have  not  yet 
attained,  which  they  feel  even  farther  and  farther  from  at- 
taining, the  more  they  strive  for  it.  And  yet,  in  still  deeper 


TEE  MYSTERY  OF  LIFE  AND  ITS  ARTS.  127 


gense,  it  is  tlie  work  of  people  who  know  also  that  they  are 
right.  The  very  sense  of  inevitable  error  from  their  purpose 
marks  the  perfectness  of  that  purpose,  and  the  continued 
sense  of  failure  arises  from  the  continued  opening  of  the  eyes 
more  clearly  to  all  the  sacredesi  laws  of  truth. 

128.  This  is  one  lesson.  The  second  is  a very  plain,  and 
greatly  precious  one,  namely  : — that  whenever  the  arts  and1 
labours  of  life  are  fulfilled  in  this  spirit  of  striving  against 
misrule,  and  doing  whatever  we  have  to  do,  honourably  and 
perfectly,  they  invariably  bring  happiness,  as  much  as  seems 
possible  to  the  nature  of  man.  In  all  other  paths,  by  which 
that  happiness  is  pursued,  there  is  disappointment,  or  de- 
struction : for  ambition  and  for  passion  there  is  no  rest — no 
fruition  ; the  fairest  pleasures  of  youth  perish  in  a darkness 
greater  than  their  past  light ; and  the  loftiest  and  purest  love 
too  often  does  but  inflame  the  cloud  of  life  with  endless  fire 
of  pain.  Bat,  ascending  from  lowest  to  highest,  through 
every  scale  of  human  industry,  that  industry  worthily  fol- 
lowed, gives  peace.  Ask  the  labourer  in  the  field,  at  the 
forge,  or  in  the  mine  ; ask  the  patient,  delicate-fingered  arti- 
san, or  the  strong-armed,  fiery-hearted  worker  in  bronze,  and 
in  marble,  and  with  the  colours  of  light ; and  none  of  these, 
who  are  true  workmen,  will  ever  tell  you,  that  they  have 
found  the  law  of  heaven  an  unkind  one — that  in  the  sweat  of 
their  face  they  should  eat  bread,  till  they  return  to  the 
ground  ; nor  that  they  ever  found  it  an  unrewarded  obe- 
dience, if,  indeed,  it  was  rendered  faithfully  to  the  com- 
mand— “Whatsoever  thy  hand  findeth  to  do — do  it  with 
thy  might.” 

129.  These  are  the  two  great  and  constant  lessons  which 
our  labourers  teach  us  of  the  mystery  of  life.  But  there  is 
another,  and  a sadder  one,  which  they  cannot  teach  us,  which 
we  must  read  on  their  tombstones. 

“ Bo  it  with  thy  might.”  There  have  been  myriads  upon 
myriads  of  human  creatures  who  have  obeyed  this  law — who 
have  put  every  breath  and  nerve  of  their  being  into  its  toil— 
who  have  devoted  every  hour,  and  exhausted  every  faculty — 
who  have  bequeathed  their  unaccomplished  thoughts  at  death 


128 


SESAME  AND  LILIES. 


—who  being  dead,  have  yet  spoken,  by  majesty  of  memory 
and  strength  of  example.  And,  at  last,  what  lias  all  tliia 
“ Might  ” of  humanity  accomplished,  in  six  thousand  years  of 
labour  and  sorrow?  What  has  it  done?  Take  the  three 
chief  occupations  and  arts  of  men,  one  by  one,  and  count  their 
achievements.  Begin  with  the  first — the  lord  of  them  all — ■ 
agriculture.  Six  thousand  years  have  passed  since  we  were 
set  to  till  the  ground,  from  which  we  were  taken.  How  much 
of  it  is  tilled  ? How  much  of  that  which  is,  wisely  or  well? 
In  the  very  centre  and  chief  garden  of  Europe — where  the 
two  forms  of  parent  Christianity  have  had  their  fortresses — 
where  the  noble  Catholics  of  the  Forest  Cantons,  and  the 
noble  Protestants  of  the  Yaudois  valleys,  have  maintained,  for 
dateless  ages,  their  faiths  and  liberties — there  the  unchecked 
Alpine  rivers  yet  run  wild  in  devastation  : and  the  marshes, 
which  a few  hundred  men  could  redeem  with  a year’s  labour, 
still  blast  their  helpless  inhabitants  into  fevered  idiotism. 
That  is  so,  in  the  centre  of  Europe ! While,  on  the  near 
coast  of  Africa,  once  the  Garden  of  the  Hesperides,  an  Arab 
woman,  but  a few'  sunsets  since,  ate  her  child,  for  famine. 
Aud,  with  all  the  treasures  of  the  East  at  our  feet,  we,  in  our 
own  dominion,  could  not  find  a few  grains  of  rice,  for  a peo- 
ple that  asked  of  us  no  more  ; but  stood  by,  and  saw  five 
hundred  thousand  of  them  perish  of  hunger. 

130.  Then,  after  agriculture,  the  art  of  kings,  take  the 
next  head  of  human  arts — weaving  ; the  art  of  queens,  hon- 
oured of  all  noble  Heathen  women,  in  the  person  of  their 
virgin  goddess — honoured  of  all  Hebrew  women,  by  the  word 
of  their  wisest  king — “ She  layeth  her  hands  to  the  spindle, 
and  her  hands  hold  the  distaff ; sbe  stretcheth  out  her  hand 
to  the  poor.  Sbe  is  not  afraid  of  the  snow  for  her  household, 
for  all  her  household  are  clothed  with  scarlet.  She  maketh 
herself  covering  of  tapestry,  her  clothing  is  silk  and  purple. 
She  maketh  fine  linen,  and  selleth  it,  and  delivereth  girdles  to 
the  merchant.”  What  have  wTe  done  in  all  these  thousands  of 
years  with  this  bright  art  of  Greek  maid  and  Christian 
matron  ? Six  thousand  years  of  weaving,  and  have  we  learned 
to  weave?  Might  not  every  naked  wall  have  been  purple 


THE  MYSTERY  OF  LIFE  AND  ITS  ARTS.  129 


with  tapestry,  and  every  feeble  breast  fenced  with  sweet 
colours  from  the  cold  ? What  have  we  done  ? Our  fingers 
are  too  few,  it  seems,  to  twist  together  some  poor  covering 
for  our  bodies.  We  set  our  streams  to  work  for  us,  and 
choke  the  air  with  fire,  to  turn  our  spinning-wheels — and, — 
are  we  yet  clothed  ?■  Are  not  the  streets  of  the  capitals  of 
Europe  foul  with  the  sale  of  cast  clouts  and  rotten  rags  ? Is 
not  the  beauty  of  your  sweet  children  left  in  wretchedness 
of  disgrace,  while,  with  better  honour,  nature  clothes  the 
brood  of  the  bird  in  its  nest,  and  the  suckling  of  the  wolf  in 
her  den  ? And  does  not  every  winter’s  snow  robe  what  you 
have  not  robed,  and  shroud  what  you  have  not  shrouded  ; and 
every  winter’s  wind  bear  up  to  heaven  its  wasted  souls,  to 
witness  against  you  hereafter,  by  the  voice  of  their  Christ, — 
“ I was  naked,  and  ye  clothed  me  not  ? ” 

131.  Lastly — take  the  Art  of  Building— the  strongest — 
proudest — most  orderly — most  enduring  of  the  arts  of  man, 
that,  of  which  the  produce  is  in  the  surest  manner  accumula- 
tive, and  need  not  perish,  or  be  replaced  ; but  if  once  wTell 
done,  will  stand  more  strongly  than  the  unbalanced  rocks — 
more  prevalently  than  the  crumbling  hills.  The  art  wTiicii  is 
associated  with  all  civic  pride  and  sacred  principle ; with 
which  men  record  their  power — satisfy  their  enthusiasm — 
make  sure  their  defence — define  and  make  dear  their  habita- 
tion. And,  in  six  thousand  years  of  building,  what  have  we 
done?  Of  the  greater  part  of  ail  that  skill  and  strength 
no  vestige  is  left,  but  fallen  stones,  that  encumber  the  fields 
and  impede  the  streams.  But,  from  this  waste  of  disorder, 
and  of  time,  and  of  rage,  what  is  left  to  us?  Constructive 
and  progressive  creatures,  that  we  are,  with  ruling  brains,  and 
forming  hands,  capable  of  fellowship,  and  thirsting  for  fame, 
can  we  not  contend,  in  comfort,  with  the  insects  of  the  forest, 
or,  in  achievement,  with  the  worm  of  the  sea.  The  white  suri 
rages  in  vain  against  the  ramparts  built  by  poor  atoms  of 
scarcely  nascent  life  ; but  only  ridges  of  formless  ruin  mark 
the  places  where  once  dwelt  our  noblest  multitudes.  The  ant 
and  the  moth  have  cells  for  each  of  their  young,  but  our  lib 
tie  ones  lie  in  festering  heaps,  in  homes  that  consume  them 


130 


SESAME  AND  LILIES. 


like  graves  ; and  night  by  night,  from  the  corners  of  our 
streets,  rises  up  the  cry  of  the  homeless — “X  was  a stranger, 
and  ye  took  me  not  in.” 

132.  Must  it  be  always  thus?  Is  our  life  for  ever  to  be 
without  profit — without  possession?  Shall  the  strength  of  its 
generations  be  as  barren  as  death  ; or  cast  away  their  labour, 
as  the  wild  figtree  casts  her  untimely  figs  ? Is  it  all  a dream 
then — the  desire  of  the  eyes  and  the  pride  of  life — or,  if  it  be, 
might  we  not  live  in  nobler  dream  than  this?  The  poets  and 
prophets,  the  wise  men,  and  the  scribes,  though  they  have 
told  us  nothing  about  a life  to  come,  have  told  us  much  about 
the  life  that  is  now.  They  have  had — they  also, — their 
dreams,  and  we  have  laughed  at  them.  They  have  dreamed 
of  mercy,  and  of  justice  ; they  have  dreamed  of  peace  and 
good-will  ; they  have  dreamed  of  labour  un disappointed,  and 
of  rest  undisturbed  ; they  have  dreamed  of  fulness  in  harvest, 
and  overflowing  in  store  ; they  have  dreamed  of  wisdom  in 
council,  and  of  providence  in  law  ; of  gladness  of  parents,  and 
strength  of  children,  and  glory  of  grey  hairs.  And  at  these 
visions  of  theirs  we  have  mocked,  and  held  them  for  idle  and 
vain,  unreal  and  unaccomplishable.  "What  have  we  accom- 
plished with  our  realities?  Is  this  what  has  come  of  our 
worldly  wisdom,  tried  against  their  folly  ? this  our  mightiest 
possible,  against  their  impotent  ideal  ? or  have  we  only  wan- 
dered among  the  spectra  of  a baser  felicity,  and  chased  phan- 
toms of  the  tombs,  instead  of  visions  of  the  Almighty ; and 
walked  after  the  imaginations  of  our  evil  hearts,  instead  of 
after  the  counsels  of  Eternity,  until  our  lives — not  in  the  like- 
ness of  the  cloud  of  heaven,  but  of  the  smoke  of  hell — have 
become  “as  a vapour,  that  appeareth  for  a little  time,  and 
then  vanisheth  away  ? ” 

133.  Does  it  vanish  then  ? Are  you  sure  of  that  ? — sure, 
that  the  nothingness  of  the  grave  will  be  a rest  from  this 
troubled  nothingness  ; and  that  the  coiling  shadow,  which 
disquiets  itself  in  vain,  cannot  change  into  the  smoke  of  the 
torment  that  ascends  for  ever  ? Will  any  answer  that  they 
are  sure  of  it,  and  that  there  is  no  fear,  nor  hope,  nor  desire. 
nor  labour,  whither  they  go  ? Be  it  so  ; will  you  not,  then 


TEE  MYSTERY  OF  LIFE  AND  ITS  ARTS.  131 


make  as  sure  of  the  Life,  that  now  is,  as  you  are  of  the  Death 
that  is  to  come  ? Your  hearts  are  wholly  in  this  world — will 
you  not  give  them  to  it  wisely,  as  well  as  perfectly  ? And 
see,  first  of  all,  that  you  have  hearts,  and  sound  hearts,  too,  to 
give.  Because  you  have  no  heaven  to  look  for,  is  that  any 
reason  that  you  should  remain  ignorant  of  this  wonderful  and 
infinite  earth,  which  is  firmly  and  instantly  given  you  in  pos- 
session ? Although  your  days  are  numbered,  and  the  follow- 
ing  darkness  sure,  is  it  necessary  that  you  should  share  the 
degradation  of  the  brute,  because  you  are  condemned  to  its 
mortality  ; or  live  the  life  of  the  moth,  and  of  the  worm,  be- 
cause you  are  to  companion  them  in  the  dust  ? Not  so  ; we 
may  have  but  a few  thousands  of  days  to  spend,  perhaps  hun- 
dreds only — perhaps  tens ; nay,  the  longest  of  our  time  and 
best,  looked  back  on,  will  be  but  as  a moment,  as  the  twink- 
ling of  an  eye  ; still,  we  are  men,  not  insects  ; we  are  living 
spirits,  not  passing  clouds.  “ He  maketh  the  winds  His  mes- 
sengers ; the  momentary  fire,  His  minister  ; ” and  shall  we  do 
less  than  these  f Let  us  do  the  work  of  men  while  we  bear 
the  form  of  them  ; and,  as  we  snatch  our  narrow  portion  of 
time  out  of  Eternity,  snatch  also  our  narrow  inheritance  of 
passion  out  of  Immortality — even  though  our  lives  be  as  a 
vapour,  that  appeareth  for  a little  time,  and  then  vanisheth 
away. 

134.  But  there  are  some  of  you  who  believe  not  this — who 
think  this  cloud  of  life  has  no  such  close — that  it  is  to  float, 
revealed  and  illumined,  upon  the  floor  of  heaven,  in  the  day 
when  He  cometh  with  clouds,  and  every  eye  shall  see  Him. 
Some  day,  you  believe,  within  these  five,  or  ten,  or  twenty 
years,  for  every  one  of  us  the  judgment  will  be  set,  and  the 
books  opened.  If  that  be  true,  far  more  than  that  must  be 
true.  Is  there  but  one  day  of  judgment  ? Why,  for  us  every 
day  is  a day  of  judgment — every  day  is  a Dies  Irae,  and  writes 
its  irrevocable  verdict  in  the  flame  of  its  West.  Think  you 
that  judgment  waits  till  the  doors  of  the  grave  are  opened  ? 
It  waits  at  the  doors  of  your  houses — it  waits  at  the  corners 
of  your  streets  ; we  are  in  the  midst  of  judgment — the  insects 
that  we  crush  are  our  judges — the  moments  we  fret  away  are 


132 


SESAME  AND  LILIES. 


our  judges — the  elements  that  feed  us,  judge,  as  they  min. 
ister — and  the  pleasures  that  deceive  us,  judge  as  they  in- 
dulge. Let  us,  for  our  lives,  do  the  work  of  Men  while  we 
bear  the  Form  of  them,  if  indeed  those  lives  are  Not  as  a 
Vapour,  and  do  Not  vanish  away. 

135.  “The  work  of  men” — and  what  is  that?  Well,  we 
may  any  of  us  know  very  quickly,  on  the  condition  of  being 
wholly  ready  to  do  it.  But  many  of  us  are  for  the  most  part 
thinking,  not  of  what  we  are  to  do,  but  of  what  we  are  to  get ; 
and  the  best  of  us  are  sunk  into  the  sin  of  Ananias,  and  it  is 
a mortal  one — we  want  to  keep  back  part  of  the  price  ; and  we 
continually  talk  of  taking  up  our  cross,  as  if  the  only  harm  in 
a cross  was  the  weight  of  it — as  if  it  was  only  a thing  to  be 
carried,  instead  of  to  be — crucified  upon.  “ They  that  are 
His  have  crucified  the  flesh,  with  the  affections  and  lusts.” 
Does  that  mean,  think  you,  that  in  time  of  national  distress, 
of  religious  trial,  of  crisis  for  every  interest  and  hope  of 
humanity — none  of  us  will  cease  jesting,  none  cease  idling, 
none  put  themselves  to  any  wholesome  work,  none  take  so 
much  as  a tag  of  lace  off  their  footman’s  coats,  to  save  the 
world  ? Or  does  it  rather  mean,  that  they  are  ready  to  leave 
houses,  lands  and  kindreds — yes,  and  life,  if  need  be  ? Life  ! 
— some  of  us  are  ready  enough  to  throw  that  away,  joyless  as 
we  have  made  it.  But  “ station  in  Life  ” — how  many  of  us 
are  ready  to  quit  that  ? Is  it  not  always  the  great  objection, 
where  there  is  question  of  finding  something  useful  to  do — 
“ We  cannot  leave  our  stations  in  Life  ? ” 

Those  of  us  who  really  cannot — that  is  to  say,  who  can  only 
maintain  themselves  by  continuing  in  some  business  or 
salaried  office,  have  already  something  to  do  ; and  all  that 
they  have  to  see  to,  is  that  they  do  it  honestly  and  with  all 
their  might.  But  with  most  people  who  use  that  apology, 
“remaining  in  the  station  of  life  to  which  Providence  has 
called  them,”  means  keeping  all  the  carriages,  and  all  the 
footmen  and  large  houses  they  can  possibly  pay  for  ; and, 
once  for  all,  I say  that  if  ever  Providence  did  put  them  into 
stations  of  that  sort — which  is  not  at  all  a matter  of  certainty 
—Providence  is  just  now  very  distinctly  calling  them  out 


THE  MYSTERY  OF  LIFE  AND  ITS  ARTS.  133 


again.  Levi’s  station  in  life  was  the  receipt  of  custom  ; and 
Peter’s,  the  shore  of  Galilee  ; and  Paul’s,  the  ante-chambers  of 
the  High  Priest, — which  “station  in  life”  each  had  to  leave, 
with  brief  notice. 

And,  whatever  our  station  in  life  may  be,  at  this  crisis, 
those  of  us  who  mean  to  fulfill  our  duty  ought,  first,  to  live 
on  as  little  as  we  can  ; and,  secondly,  to  do  all  the  wholesome 
work  for  it  we  can,  and  to  spend  all  we  can  spare  in  doing  all 
the  sure  good  we  can. 

And  sure  good  is  first  in  feeding  people,  then  in  dressing 
people,  then  in  lodging  people,  and  lastly  in  rightly  pleas- 
ing people,  with  arts,  or  sciences,  or  any  other  subject  of 
thought. 

136.  I say  first  in  feeding ; and,  once  for  all,  do  not  let 
yourselves  be  deceived  by  any  of  the  common  talk  of  “in- 
discriminate charity.”  The  order  to  us  is  not  to  feed  the  de- 
serving hungry,  nor  the  industrious  hungry,  nor  the  amiable 
and  well-intentioned  hungry,  but  simply  to  feed  the  hungry. 
It  is  quite  true,  infallibly  true,  that  if  any  man  will  not  work, 
neither  should  he  eat — think  of  that,  and  every  time  you  sit 
down  to  your  dinner,  ladies  and  gentlemen,  say  solemnly, 
before  you  ask  a blessing,  “ How  much  work  have  I done  to- 
day for  my  dinner  ? ” But  the  proper  way  to  enforce  that 
order  on  those  below  you,  as  well  as  on  yourselves,  is  not  to 
leave  vagabonds  and  honest  people  to  starve  together,  but  very 
distinctly  to  discern  and  seize  your  vagabond  ; and  shut  your 
vagabond  up  out  of  honest  people’s  way,  and  very  sternly  than 
see  that,  until  he  has  worked,  he  does  not  eat.  But  the  first 
thing  is  to  be  sure  you  have  the  food  to  give ; and,  therefore, 
to  enforce  the  organization  of  vast  activities  in  agriculture  and 
in  commerce,  for  the  production  of  the  wliolesomest  food,  and 
proper  storing  and  distribution  of  it,  so  that  no  famine  shall 
anymore  be  possible  among  civilized  beings.  There  is  plenty 
of  work  in  this  business  alone,  and  at  once,  for  any  number 
of  people  who  like  to  engage  in  it. 

137.  Secondly,  dressing  people — that  is  to  say,  urging  every 
one  within  reach  of  your  influence  to  be  always  neat  and 
clean,  and  giving  them  means  of  being  so.  In  so  far  as  they 

9 


1 3-J: 


SESAME  AND  LILIES. 


absolutely  refuse,  you  must  give  up  the  effort  with  respect  to 
them,  only  taking  care  that  no  children  within  your  sphere  oi 
influence  shall  any  more  be  brought  up  with  such  habits ; and 
that  every  person  who  is  willing  to  dress  with  propriety  shall 
have  encouragement  to  do  so.  And  the  first  absolutely  neces- 
sary step  towards  this  is  the  gradual  adoption  of  a consistent 
dress  for  different  ranks  of  persons,  so  that  their  rank  shall  be 
known  by  their  dress ; and  the  restriction  of  the  changes  of 
fashion  within  certain  limits.  All  which  appears  for  the 
present  quite  impossible  ; but  it  is  only  so  far  as  even  difficult 
as  it  is  difficult  to  conquer  our  vanity,  frivolity,  and  desire  to 
appear  what  we  are  not.  And  it  is  not,  nor  ever  shall  be, 
creed  of  mine,  that  these  mean  and  shallow  vices  are  uncon. 
querable  by  Christian  women. 

138.  And  then,  thirdly,  lodging  people,  which  you  may 
think  should  have  been  put  first,  but  I put  it  third,  because 
wTe  must  feed  and  clothe  people  where  we  find  them,  and 
lodge  them  afterwards.  And  providing  lodgment  for  them 
means  a great  deal  of  vigorous  legislation,  and  cutting  dowrn 
of  vested  interests  that  stand  in  the  way,  and  after  that,  or 
before  that,  so  far  as  we  can  get  it,  thorough  sanitary  and 
remedial  action  in  the  houses  that  we  have;  and  then  the 
building  of  more,  strongly,  beautifully,  and  in  groups  of 
limited  extent,  kept  in  proportion  to  their  streams,  and 
walled  round,  so  that  there  may  be  no  festering  and  wretched 
suburb  anywhere,  but  clean  and  busy  street  within,  and  the 
open  country  without,  with  a belt  of  beautiful  garden  and 
orchard  round  the  wTalls,  so  that  from  any  part  of  the  city 
perfectly  fresh  air  and  grass,  and  sight  of  far  horizon  might 
be  reachable  in  a few  minutes’  walk.  This  the  final  aim  ; but 
in  immediate  action  every  minor  and  possible  good  to  be 
instantly  done,  when,  and  as,  we  can  ; roofs  mended  that 
have  holes  in  them — fences  patched  that  have  gaps  in  them--' 
walls  buttressed  that  totter — and  floors  propped  that  shake  : 
cleanliness  and  order  enforced  with  our  own  hands  and  eyes, 
till  we  are  breathless,  every  day.  And  all  the  fine  arts  will 
healthily  follow.  I myself  have  washed  a flight  of  stone  stairs 
all  down,  with  bucket  and  broom,  in  a Savoy  inn,  where  they 


THE  MTSTERY  OF  LIFE  AND  ITS  ARTS.  135 


hadn’t  washed  their  stairs  since  they  first  went  up  them  ? and 
I never  made  a better  sketch  than  that  afternoon. 

139.  These,  then,  are  the  three  first  needs  of  civilized  life  ; 
and  the  law  for  every  Christian  man  and  woman  is,  that  they 
shall  be  in  direct  service  towards  one  of  these  three  needs,  as 
far  as  is  consistent  with  their  own  special  occupation,  and  if 
they  have  no  special  business,  then  wholly  in  one  of  these 
services..  And  out  of  such  exertion  in  plain  duty  all  other 
good  will  come  ; for  in  this  direct  contention  with  material 
evil,  you  will  find  out  the  real  nature  of  all  evil ; you  will  dis- 
cern by  the  various  kinds  of  resistance,  what  is  really  the 
fault  and  main  antagonism  to  good  ; also  you  will  find  the 
most  unexpected  helps  and  profound  lessons  given,  and  truths 
will  come  thus  down  to  us  which  the  speculation  of  all  our 
fives  would  never  have  raised  us  up  to.  You  will  find  nearly 
every  educational  problem  solved,  as  soon  as  you  truly  want 
to  do  something  ; everybody  will  become  of  use  in  their  own 
fittest  way,  and  will  learn  what  is  best  for  them  to  know  in 
that  use.  Competitive  examination  will  then,  and  not  till 
then,  be  wholesome,  because  it  will  be  daily,  and  calm,  and 
in  practice  ; and  on  these  familiar  arts,  and  minute,  but  cer- 
tain and  serviceable  knowledges,  will  be  surely  edified  and 
sustained  the  greater  arts  and  splendid  theoretical  sciences. 

140.  But  much  more  than  this.  On  such  holy  and  simple 
practice  will  be  founded,  indeed,  at  last,  an  infallible  religion. 
The  greatest  of  all  the  mysteries  of  life,  and  the  most  terrible, 
is  the  corruption  of  even  the  sincerest  religion,  which  is  not 
daily  founded  on  rational,  effective,  humble,  and  helpful 
action.  Helpful  action,  observe ! for  there  is  just  one  law. 
Which  obeyed,  keeps  all  religions  pure — forgotten,  makes 
them  all  false.  Whenever  in  any  religious  faith,  dark  or 
bright,  we  allow  our  minds  to  dwell  upon  the  points  in  which 
we  differ  from  other  people,  we  are  wrong,  and  in  the  devil’s 
power.  That  is  the  essence  of  the  Pharisee’s  thanksgiving — 
“ Lord,  I thank  thee  that  I am  not  as  other  men  are.”  At 
every  moment  of  our  lives  we  should  be  trying  to  find  out, 
not  in  what  we  differ  with  other  people,  but  in  wThat  we  agree 
with  them  ; and  the  moment  we  find  we  can  agree  as  to  any- 


13G 


SESAME  AND  LILIES. 


thing  that  should  be  done,  kind  or  good,  (and  who  but  fools 
couldn’t  ?)  then  do  it ; push  at  it  together  ; you  can’t  quarrel 
in  a side-by-side  push  ; but  the  moment  that  even  the  best 
men  stop  pushing,  and  begin  talking,  they  mistake  their  pug- 
nacity for  piety,  and  it’s  all  over.  I will  not  speak  of  the 
crimes  which  in  past  times  have  been  committed  in  the  name 
of  Christ,  nor  of  the  follies  which  are  at  this  hour  held  to  be 
consistent  with  obedience  to  Him  ; but  I will  speak  of  the 
morbid  corruption  and  waste  of  vital  power  in  religious  senti- 
ment, by  which  the  pure  strength  of  that  which  should  be  the 
guiding  soul  of  every  nation,  the  splendour  of  its  youthful 
manhood,  and  spotless  light  of  its  maidenhood,  is  averted  or 
cast  away.  You  may  see  continually  girls  who  have  never 
been  taught  to  do  a single  useful  thing  thoroughly  ; who  can- 
not sew,  who  cannot  cook,  who  cannot  cast  an  account,  nor 
prepare  a medicine,  whose  whole  life  has  been  passed  either 
in  play  or  in  pride  ; you  will  find  girls  like  these  when  they 
are  earnest-hearted,  cast  all  their  innate  passion  of  religious 
spirit,  which  was  meant  by  Cod  to  support  them  through  the 
irksomeness  of  daily  toil,  into  grievous  and  vain  meditation 
over  the  meaning  of  the  great  Book,  of  which  no  syllable  was 
ever  yet  to  be  understood  but  through  a deed  ; all  the  instinc- 
tive wisdom  and  mercy  of  their  womanhood  made  vain,  and 
the  glory  of  their  pure  consciences  warped  into  fruitless  agony 
concerning  questions  which  the  laws  of  common  serviceable 
life  would  have  either  solved  for  them  in  an  instant,  or  kept 
out  of  their  way.  Give  such  a girl  any  true  work  that  wall 
make  her  active  in  the  dawn,  and  weary  at  night,  with  the 
consciousness  that  her  fellow-creatures  have  indeed  been  the 
better  for  her  day,  and  the  powerless  sorrow  of  her  enthusiasm 
will  transform  itself  into  a majesty  of  radiant  and  beneficent 
peace. 

So  with  our  youths.  We  once  taught  them  to  make  Latin 
verses,  and  called  them  educated  ; now  we  teach  them  to  leap 
and  to  row,  to  hit  a ball  with  a bat,  and  call  them  educated. 
Can  they  plow,  can  they  sow,  can  they  plant  at  the  right  time, 
or  build  with  a steady  hand  ? Is  it  the  effort  of  their  lives  to 
be  chaste,  knightly,  faithful,  holy  in  thought,  lovely  in  word 


THE  MYSTERY  OF  LIFE  ANJD  ITS  ARTS.  137 


and  deed?  Indeed  it  is,  with  some,  nay  with  many,  and  the 
strength  of  England  is  in  them,  and  the  hope  ; but  we  have 
to  turn  their  courage  from  the  toil  of  war  to  the  toil  of  mercy  ; 
and  their  intellect  from  dispute  of  words  to  discernment  of 
things  ; and  their  knighthood  from  the  errantry  of  adventure 
to  the  state  and  fidelity  of  a kingly  power.  And  then,  indeed, 
shall  abide,  for  them,  and  for  us  an  incorruptible  felicity, 
and  an  infallible  religion  ; shall  abide  for  us  Faith,  no  more  to 
be  assailed  by  temptation,  no  more  to  be  defended  by  wrath 
and  by  fear ; — shall  abide  with  us  Hope,  no  more  to  be 
quenched  by  the  years  that  overwhelm,  or  made  ashamed  by 
the  shadows  that  betray  ; shall  abide  for  us,  and  with  us,  the 
greatest  of  these  ; the  abiding  will,  the  abiding  name,  of  ous 
Father.  For  the  greatest  of  these,  is  Charity. 


UNTO  THIS  LAST 

FOUR  ESSAYS 

ON  THE  FIRST  PRINCIPLES  OK 


POLITICAL  ECONOMY 


•‘FRIEND,  1 no  THEE  NO  WRONG.  DID*ST  NOT  T HO  J AGREE  WTTF 
ME  FOR  A PENNY?  TAKE  THAT  THINE  IS,  AND  GO  THY  WAY.  I WILI 
GIVE  UNTO  THIS  LAST  EVEN  AS  UNTO  THEE.” 


“IF  YE  THINK  GOOD,  GIVE  ME  MY  PRICE;  AND  IF  NOT,  FORBEAR. 
SO  THEY  WEIGHED  FOR  MY  PRICE  THIRTY  PIECES  OF  SILVER.” 


PREFACE. 


The  four  following  essays  were  published  eighteen  months 
ago  in  the  Cornhill  Magazine , and  were  reprobated  in  a violent 
manner,  as  far  as  I could  hear,  by  most  of  the  readers  they 
met  with. 

Not  a wdiit  the  less,  I believe  them  to  be  the  best,  that  is  to 
say,  the  truest,  rightest-worded,  and  most  serviceable  things  I 
have  ever  written  ; and  the  last  of  them,  having  had  especial 
pains  spent  on  it,  is  probably  the  best  I shall  ever  write. 

‘c  This,”  the  reader  may  reply,  “ it  might  be,  yet  not  there* 
fore  well  written.”  Which,  in  no  mock  humility,  admitting, 
I yet  rest  satisfied  with  the  avork,  though  with  nothing  else 
that  I have  done  ; and  purposing  shortly  to  follow  out  the 
subjects  opened  in  these  papers,  as  I may  find  leisure,  I wish 
the  introductory  statements  to  be  within  the  reach  of  any  One 
who  may  care  to  refer  to  them.  So  I republish  the  essays  as 
they  appeared.  One  word  only  is  changed,  correcting  the  es» 
timate  of  a wreight  ; and  no  word  is  added. 

Although,  however,  I find  nothing  to  modify  in  these  papers, 
it  is  matter  of  regret  to  me  that  the  most  startling  of  all  the  state- 
ments in  them, — that  respecting  the  necessity  of  the  organiza- 
tion of  labour,  with  fixed  w7ages, — should  have  found  its  way  into 
the  first  essay  ; it  being  quite  one  of  the  least  important,  though 
by  no  means  the  least  certain,  of  the  positions  to  be  defended. 
The  real  gist  of  these  papers,  their  central  meaning  and  aim, 
is  to  give,  as  I believe  for  the  first  time  in  plain  English, — it 
has  often  been  incidentally  given  in  good  Greek  by  Plato  and 
Xenophon,  and  good  Latin  by  Cicero  and  Horace, — a logical 
definition  of  we^llth  : such  definition  being  absolutely  needed 
for  a basis  of  economical  science.  The  most  reputed  essay 


142 


PREFACE. 


on  that  subject  which  has  appeared  in  modem  times,  aftei 
opening  with  the  statement  that  “ writers  on  political  econ- 
omy profess  to  teach,  or  to  investigate,*  the  nature  of  wealth,” 
thus  follows  up  the  declaration  of  its  thesis — “ Every  one  has 
a notion,  sufficiently  correct  for  common  purposes,  of  what  is 
meant  by  wealth.”  . . . u It  is  is  no  part  of  the  design  of  this 
treatise  to  aim  at  metaphysical  nicety  of  definition.!  ” 

Metaphysical  nicety,  we  assuredly  do  not  need  ; but  physi- 
cal nicety,  and  logical  accuracy,  with  respect  to  a physical 
subject,  we  as  assuredly  do. 

Suppose  the  subject  of  inquiry,  instead  of  being  House  law 
( Oilconomia ),  had  been  Star-law  ( Astronomic z),  and  that,  ignor- 
ing distinction  between  stars  fixed  and  wandering,  as  here 
between  wealth  radiant  and  wealth  reflective,  the  writer  had 
begun  thus  : “ Every  one  has  a notion,  sufficiently  correct  for 
common  purposes,  of  what  is  meant  by  stars.  Metaphysical 
nicety  in  the  definition  of  a star  is  not  the  object  of  this  treat- 
ise ; ” — the  essay  so  opened  might  yet  have  been  far  more  true 
in  its  final  statements,  and  a thousand-fold  more  serviceable 
to  the  navigator,  than  any  treatise  on  wealth,  which  founds 
its  conclusions  on  the  popular  conception  of  wealth,  can  ever 
become  to  the  economist. 

It  was,  therefore,  the  first  object  of  these  following  papers 
to  give  an  accurate  and  stable  ' definition  of  wealth.  Their 
second  object  was  to  show  that  the  acquisition  of  wealth  was 
finally  possible  only  under  certain  moral  conditions  of  society,  of 
which  quite  the  first  was  a belief  in  the  existence  and  even, 
for  practical  purposes,  in  the  attainability  of  honesty. 

Without  venturing  to  pronounce— since  on  such  a matter 
human  judgment  is  by  no  means  conclusive — what  is,  or  is 
not,  the  noblest  of  God’s  works,  we  may  yet  admit  so  much 
of  Pope’s  assertion  as  that  an  honest  man  is  among  His  best 
works  presently  visible,  and,  as  things  stand,  a somewhat  rare 

* Which  ? for  where  investigation  is  necessary,  teaching  is  impos- 
sible. 

f Principles  of  Political  Economy.  By  J.  S.  Mill.  Preliminary  r© 
marks,  p 2. 


PREFACE. 


143 


one  ; but  not  an  incredible  or  miraculous  work  ; still  less  an 
abnormal  one.  Honesty  is  not  a disturbing  force,  which  de- 
ranges the  orbits  of  economy  ; but  a consistent  and  command- 
ing force,  by  obedience  to  which — and  by  no  other  obedience 
• — those  orbits  can  continue  clear  of  chaos. 

It  is  true,  I have  sometimes  heard  Pope  condemned  for  the 
lowness,  instead  of  the  height,  of  his  standard  : — “ Honesty  is 
indeed  a respectable  virtue  ; but  how  much  higher  may  men 
attain  ! Shall  nothing  more  be  asked  of  us  than  that  we  be 
honest  ? ” 

For  the  present,  good  friends,  nothing.  It  seems  that  in 
our  aspirations  to  bo  more  than  that,  we  have  to  some  extent 
lost  sight  of  the  propriety  of  being  so  much  as  that.  What 
else  we  may  have  lost  faith  in,  there  shall  be  here  no  question  : 
but  assuredly  we  have  lost  faith  in  common  honesty,  and  in 
the  working  power  of  it.  And  this  faith,  with  the  facts  on 
which  it  may  rest,  it  is  quite  our  first  business  to  recover  and 
keep  : not  only  believing,  but  even  by  experience  assuring 
ourselves,  that  there  are  yet  in  the  world  men  who  can  be  re- 
strained from  fraud  otherwise  than  by  the  fear  of  losing  em- 
ployment ; * nay,  that  it  is  even  accurately  in  proportion  to 
the  number  of  such  men  in  any  State,  that  the  said  State  does 
or  can  prolong  its  existence. 

To  these  two  points,  then,  the  following  essays  are  mainly 
directed.  The  subject  of  the  organization  of  labour  is  only 
casually  touched  upon  ; because,  if  we  once  can  get  a suffi- 
cient quantity  of  honesty  in  our  captains,  the  organization  of 
labour  is  easy,  and  will  develop  itself  without  quarrel  or  diffi- 
culty ; but  if  we  cannot  get  honesty  in  our  captains,  the  or- 
ganization of  labour  is  for  evermore  impossible. 

The  several  conditions  of  its  possibility  I purpose  to  exam- 
ine at  length  in  the  sequel.  Yet,  lest  the  reader  should  bo 
alarmed  by  the  hints  thrown  out  during  the  following  in- 
vestigation of  first  principles,  as  if  they  were  leading  him  into 

* “ The  effectual  discipline  which  is  exercised  over  a workman  is  not 
that  of  his  corporation,  but  of  his  customers.  It  is  the  fear  of  losing 
their  employment  which  restrains  his  frauds,  and  corrects  his  neglh 
gence.”  ( Wealth  of  Nations t Book  I.  chap.  10.) 


1U 


PREFA OR 


unexpectedly  dangerous  ground,  I will,  for  his  better  assuw 
ance,  state  at  once  the  worst  of  the  political  creed  at  which  1 
wish  him  to  arrive. 

1.  First, — that  there  should  be  training  schools  for  youth 
established,  at  Government  cost,*  and  under  Government 
discipline,  over  the  whole  country  ; that  every  child  born  in 
the  country  should,  at  the  parent’s  wish,  be  permitted  (and, 
in  certain  cases,  be  under  penalty  required)  to  pass  through 
them  ; and  that,  in  these  schools,  the  child  should  (with  other 
minor  pieces  of  knowledge  hereafter  to  be  considered)  imper- 
atively be  taught,  with  the  best  skill  of  teaching  that  the 
country  could  produce,  the  following  three  things  : — 

(а)  the  laws  of  health,  and  the  exercises  enjoined  by  them  ; 

(б)  habits  of  gentleness  and  justice  ; and 

(c)  the  calling  by  which  he  is  to  live. 

2.  Secondly, — that,  in  connection  with  these  training 
schools,  there  should  be  established,  also  entirely  under  Gov- 
ernment regulation,  manufactories  and  workshops,  for  the 
production  and  sale  of  every  necessary  of  life,  and  for  the 
exercise  of  every  useful  art.  And  that,  interfering  no  whit 
with  private  enterprise,  nor  setting  any  restraints  or  tax  on 
private  trade,  but  leaving  both  to  do  their  best,  and  beat  the 
Government  if  they  could, — there  should,  at  these  Govern- 
ment manufactories  and  shops,  be  authoritatively  good  and 
exemplary  work  done,  and  pure  and  true  substance  sold  ; so 
that  a man  could  be  sure,  if  he  chose  to  pay  the  Government 
price,  that  he  got  for  his  money  bread  that  was  bread,  ale 
that  was  ale,  and  work  that  was  wrork. 

3.  Thirdly, — that  any  man,  or  woman,  or  boy,  or  girl,  out 
of  employment,  should  be  at  once  received  at  the  nearest 

* It  will  probably  be  inquired  by  near-sighted  persons,  out  of  what 
funds  such  schools  could  be  supported.  The  expedient  modes  of  direct 
provision  for  them  I will  examine  hereafter  ; indirectly,  they  would  be 
far  more  than  self-supporting.  The  economy  in  crime  alone,  quite  ona 
of  the  most  costly  articles  of  luxury  in  the  modern  European  market,] 
which  such  schools  would  induce,  would  suffice  to  support  them  ten 
times  over.  Their  economy  of  labour  would  be  pure  gain,  and  that  too 
large  to  he  presently  calculable. 


PREFACE, 


145 


Government  school,  and  set  to  such  work  as  it  appeared,  on 
trial,  they  were  fit  for,  at  a fixed  rate  of  wages  determinable 
every  year  : — that,  being  found  incapable  of  work  through 
ignorance,  they  should  be  taught,  or  being  found  incapable 
of  work  through  sickness,  should  be  tended  ; but  that  being 
found  objecting  to  work,  they  should  be  set,  under  compul- 
sion of  the  strictest  nature,  to  the  more  painful  and  degrading 
forms  of  necessary  toil,  especially  to  that  in  mines  and  other 
places  of  danger  (such  danger  being,  however,  diminished  to 
the  utmost  by  careful  regulation  and  discipline)  and  the  due 
wages  of  such  work  be  retained — cost  of  compulsion  first  ab 
stracted — to  be  at  the  workman’s  command,  so  soon  as  he  has 
come  to  sounder  mind  respecting  the  laws  of  employment. 

4.  Lastly, — that  for  the  old  and  destitute,  comfort  and 
home  should  be  provided  ; which  provision,  when  misfortune 
had  been  by  the  working  of  such  a system  sifted  from  guilt, 
would  be  honourable  instead  of  disgraceful  to  the  receiver. 
For  (I  repeat  this  passage  out  of  my  Political  Economy  of  Art, 
to  which  the  reader  is  referred  for  farther  detail  *)  “ a 
\ibourer  serves  his  country  with  his  spade,  just  as  a man  in 
the  middle  ranks  of  life  serves  it  with  sword,  pen,  or  lancet. 
If  the  service  be  less,  and,  therefore,  the  wages  during  health 
less,  then  the  reward  when  health  is  broken  may  be  less,  but 
not  less  honourable  ; and  it  ought  to  be  quite  as  natural  and 
straightforward  a matter  for  a labourer  to  take  his  pension 
from  his  parish,  because  he  has  deserved  well  of  his  parish,  as 
for  a man  in  higher  rank  to  take  his  pension  from  his  coun- 
try, because  he  has  deserved  well  of  his  country.” 

To  which  statement,  I will  only  add,  for  conclusion,  re- 
specting the  discipline  and  pay  of  life  and  death,  that,  for 
both  high  and  low,  Livy’s  last  words  touching  Valerius  Public- 
ola,  “ de  publico  est  elatusf  \ ought  not  to  be  a dishonour- 
able close  of  epitaph. 

* Addenda,  p.  102. 

f “ P.  Valerius,  omnium  consensu  princeps  belli  pacisque  artibus, 
anno  post  moritur;  gloria,  ingenti,  copiis  familiaribus  adeo  exiguis,  ut 
funeri  sumtus  deesset : de  publico  est  elatus.  Luxere  matron®  ut 
Brutum.” — Lib.  II.  c.  xvi. 


146 


PREFACE : 


These  things,  then,  I believe,  and  am  about,  as  I find 
power,  to  explain  and  illustrate  in  their  various  bearings; 
following  out  also  what  belongs  to  them  of  collateral  inquiry. 
Here  I state  them  only  in  brief,  to  prevent  the  reader  casting 
about  in  alarm  for  my  ultimate  meaning  ; yet  requesting  him, 
for  the  present,  to  remember,  that  in  a science  dealing  with 
so  subtle  elements  as  those  of  human  nature,  it  is  only  possi- 
ble to  answer  for  the  final  truth  of  principles,  not  for  the  di- 
rect success  of  plans  : and  that  in  the  best  of  these  last,  what 
can  be  immediately  accomplished  is  always  questionable,  and 
what  can  be  finally  accomplished,  inconceivable. 

Denmark  Hiil9  10 th  Mayt  1802, 


CONTENTS 


essay  page 

I. — The  Hoots  of  Honour 149 

II. — The  Veins  of  Wealth .166 

III.  — Qui  Judicatis  Terr  am 179 

IV. — Ad  Valorem.  196 


UNTO  THIS  LAST.” 


Li 


ESSAY  I 

THE  ROOTS  OF  HONOUR, 

Among  the  delusions  which  at  different  periods  have  possessed 
themselves  of  the  minds  of  large  masses  of  the  human  race, 
perhaps  the  most  curious — certainly  the  least  creditable — is 
the  modern  soi-disant  science  of  political  economy,  based  on 
the  idea  that  an  advantageous  code  of  social  action  may  be 
determined  irrespectively  of  the  influence  of  social  affection. 

Of  course,  as  in  the  instances  of  alchemy,  astrology,  witch- 
craft,  and  other  such  popular  creeds,  political  economy  has  a 
plausible  idea  at  the  root  of  it.  “ The  social  affections,”  says 
the  economist,  “are  accidental  and  disturbing  elements  in 
human  nature  ; but  avarice  and  the  desire  of  progress  are 
constant  elements.  Let  us  eliminate  the  inconstants,  and, 
considering  the  human  being  merely  as  a covetous  machine, 
examine  by  what  laws  of  labour,  purchase,  and  sale,  the 
greatest  accumulative  result  in  wealth  is  attainable.  Those 
laws  once  determined,  it  will  be  for  each  individual  after- 
wards to  introduce  as  much  of  the  disturbing  affectionate 
element  as  he  chooses,  and  to  determine  for  himself  the  re- 
sult on  the  new  conditions  supposed.” 

This  would  be  a perfectly  logical  and  successful  method  of 
analysis,  if  the  accidentals  afterwards  to  be  introduced  were 
of  the  same  nature  as  the  powers  first  examined.  Supposing 
a body  in  motion  to  be  influenced  by  constant  and  inconstant 
forces,  it  is  usually  the  simplest  way  of  examining  its  course 
to  trace  it  first  under  the  persistent  conditions,  and  after- 


150 


THE  ROOTS  OF  HOF  OUR. 


■wards  introduce  the  causes  of  variation.  But  the  disturbing 
elements  in  the  social  problem  are  not  of  the  same  nature  as 
the  constant  ones  ; they  alter  the  essence  of  the  creature  un- 
der examination  the  moment  they  are  added  ; they  operate, 
not  mathematically,  but  chemically,  introducing  conditions 
which  render  all  our  previous  knowledge  unavailable.  Wc 
made  learned  experiments  upon  pure  nitrogen,  and  have  con- 
vinced ourselves  that  it  is  a very  manageable  gas  : but  be- 
hold ! the  thing  which  we  have  practically  to  deal  with  is  its 
chloride  ; and  this,  the  moment  we  touch  it  on  our  established 
principles,  sends  us  and  our  apparatus  through  the  ceiling. 

Observe,  I neither  impugn  nor  doubt  the  conclusions  of 
the  science,  if  its  terms  are  accepted,  I am  simpty  uninter- 
ested in  them,  as  I should  be  in  those  of  a science  of  gymnas- 
tics which  assumed  that  men  had  no  skeletons.  It  might  be 
shown,  on  that  supposition,  that  it  would  be  advantageous  to 
roll  the  students  up  into  pellets,  flatten  them  into  cakes,  or 
stretch  them  into  cables ; and  that  when  these  results  were 
effected,  the  re-insertion  of  the  skeleton  would  be  attended 
with  various  inconveniences  to  their  constitution.  The  rea- 
soning might  be  admirable,  the  conclusions  true,  and  the 
science  deficient  only  in  applicability.  Modern  political 
economy  stands  on  a precisely  similar  basis.  Assuming,  not 
that  the  human  being  has  no  skeleton,  but  that  it  is  all  skele- 
ton, it  founds  an  ossifiant  theory  of  progress  on  this  negation 
of  a soul ; and  having  shown  the  utmost  that  may  be  made  of 
bones,  and  constructed  a number  of  interesting  geometrical 
figures  with  death’s-heads  and  humeri,  successfully  proves 
the  inconvenience  of  the  reappearance  of  a soul  among  these 
corpuscular  structures.  I do  not  deny  the  truth  of  this 
theory : I simply  deny  its  applicability  to  tire  present  j^hase 
of  the  world. 

This  inapplicability  has  been  curiously  manifested  during 
the  embarrassment  caused  by  the  late  strikes  of  our  workmen. 
Here  occurs  one  of  the  simplest  cases,  in  a pertinent  and 
positive  form,  of  the  first  vital  problem  which  political  econo- 
my has  to  deal  with  (the  relation  between  employer  and  em- 
ployed) ; and  at  a severe  crisis,  when  lives  in  multitudes,  and 


THE  ROOTS  OF  HONOUR. 


151 


wealth  in  masses,  are  at  stake,  the  political  economists  are 
helpless — practically  mute  ; no  demonstrable  solution  of  the 
difficulty  can  be  given  by  them,  such  as  may  convince  or 
calm  the  opposing  parties.  Obstinately  the  masters  take  one 
view  of  the  matter ; obstinately  the  operatives  another  ; and 
no  political  science  can  set  them  at  one. 

It  would  be  strange  if  it  could,  it  being  not  by  “ science  ” 
of  any  kind  that  men  were  ever  intended  to  be  set  at  one. 
Disputant  after  disputant  vainly  strives  to  show  that  the  in- 
terests of  the  masters  are,  or  are  not,  antagonistic  to  those  of 
the  men  : none  of  the  pleaders  ever  seeming  to  remember 
that  it  does  not  absolutely  or  always  follow  that  the  persons 
must  be  antagonistic  because  their  interests  are.  If  there  is 
only  a crust  of  bread  in  the  house,  and  mother  and  children 
are  starving,  their  interests  are  not  the  same.  If  the  mother 
eats  it,  the  children  want  it ; if  the  children  eat  it,  the  mother 
must  go  hungry  to  her  work.  Yet  it  does  not  necessarily  fol 
low  that  there  will  be  “ antagonism  ” between  them,  that  they 
will  fight  for  the  crust,  and  that  the  mother,  being  strongest, 
will  get  it,  and  eat  it.  Neither,  in  any  other  case,  whatever 
the  relations  of  the  persons  may  be,  can  it  be  assumed  for 
certain  that,  because  their  interests  are  diverse,  they  must 
necessarily  regard  each  other  with  hostility,  and  use  violence 
or  cunning  to  obtain  the  advantage. 

Even  if  this  were  so,  and  it  were  as  just  as  it  is  convenient 
to  consider  men  as  actuated  by  no  other  moral  influences 
than  those  which  affect  rats  or  swine,  the  logical  conditions  of 
the  question  are  still  indeterminable.  It  can  never  be  shown 
generally  either  that  the  interests  of  master  and  labourer  are 
alike,  or  that  they  are  opposed  ; for,  according  to  circum- 
stances, they  may  be  either.  It  is,  indeed,  always  the  in- 
terest of  both  that  the  work  should  be  rightly  done,  and  a 
just  price  obtained  for  it ; but,  in  the  division  of  profits,  the 
gain  of  the  one  may  or  may  not  be  the  loss  of  the  other.  It 
is  not  the  master’s  interest  to  pay  wages  so  low  as  to  leave 
the  men  sickty  and  depressed,  nor  the  workman’s  interest  to 
be  paid  high  wages  if  the  smallness  of  the  master’s  profit 
hinders  him  from  enlarging  his  business,  or  conducting  it  in 


152  . 


THE  ROOTS  OF  HONOUR 


a safe  and  liberal  way.  A stoker  ought  not  to  desire  high 
pay  if  the  company  is  too  poor  to  keep  the  engine-wheels  in 
repair. 

And  the  varieties  of  circumstances  which  influence  these 
reciprocal  interests  are  so  endless,  that  all  endeavour  to 
deduce  rules  of  action  from  balance  of  expediency  is  in  vain. 
And  it  is  meant  to  be  in  vain.  For  no  human  actions  ever 
were  intended  by  the  Maker  of  men  to  be  guided  by  balances 
of  expediency,  but  by  balances  of  justice.  He  has  therefore 
rendered  all  endeavours  to  determine  expediency  futile  for 
evermore.  No  man  ever  knew,  or  can  know,  what  will  be  the 
ultimate  result  to  himself,  or  to  others,  of  any  given  liue  of 
conduct.  But  every  man  may  know,  and  most  of  us  do 
know,  what  is  a just  and  unjust  act.  And  all  of  us  may  know 
also,  that  the  consequences  of  justice  will  be  ultimately  the 
best  possible,  both  to  others  and  ourselves,  though  we  can 
neither  say  what  is  best,  nor  how  it  is  likely  to  come  to 
pass. 

I have  said  balances  of  justice,  meaning,  in  the  term  jus- 
tice, to  include  affection, — such  affection  as  one  man  owes  to 
another.  All  right  relations  between  master  and  operative, 
and  all  their  best  interests,  ultimately  depend  on  these. 

We  shall  find  the  best  and  simplest  illustration  of  the  re- 
lations of  master  and  operative  in  the  position  of  domestic 
servants. 

We  will  suppose  that  the  master  of  a household  desires 
only  to  get  as  much  work  out  of  his  servants  as  he  can,  at 
the  rate  of  wages  he  gives.  He  never  allows  them  to  be 
idle  ; feeds  them  as  poorly  and  lodges  them  as  ill  as  they 
will  endure,  and  in  all  things  pushes  his  requirements  to  the 
exact  point  beyond  which  he  cannot  go  without  forcing  the 
servant  to  leave  him.  In  doing  this,  there  is  no  violation  on 
his  part  of  what  is  commonly  called  “justice.”  He  agrees 
with  the  domestic  for  his  whole  time  and  service,  and  takes 
them ; the  limits  of  hardship  in  treatment  being  fixed  by  the 
practice  of  other  masters  in  his  neighbourhood  ; that  is  to 
say,  by  the  current  rate  of  wages  for  domestic  labour.  If  the 
servant  can  get  a better  place,  he  is  free  to  take  one,  and  the 


THE  ROOTS  OF  HONOUR. 


153 


master  can  only  tell  what  is  the  real  market  value  of  his 
labour,  by  requiring  as  much  as  he  will  give. 

This  is  the  politico-economical  view  of  the  case,  according 
to  the  doctors  of  that  science  ; who  assent  that  by  this  proced- 
ure the  greatest  average  of  work  will  be  obtained  from  the 
servant,  and  therefore,  the  greatest  benefit  to  the  commu- 
nity, and  through  the  community,  by  reversion,  to.  the  servant 
himself. 

That,  however,  is  not  so.  It  would  be  so  if  the  servant 
were  an  engine  of  which  the  motive  power  was  steam,  mag- 
netism, gravitation,  or  any  other  agent  of  calculable  force. 
But  he  being,  on  the  contrary,  an  engine  whose  motive 
power  is  a Soul,  the  force  of  this  very  peculiar  agent,  as  an 
unknown  quantity,  enters  into  all  the  political  economist’s 
equations,  without  his  knowledge,  and  falsifies  every  one  of 
their  results.  The  largest  quantity  of  work  will  not  be  done 
by  this  curious  engine  for  pay,  or  under  pressure,  or  by  help 
of  any  kind  of  fuel  which  may  be  applied  by  the  chaldron. 
It  will  be  done  only  when  the  motive  force,  that  is  to  say, 
the  will  or  spirit  of  the  creature,  is  brought  to  its  greatest 
strength  by  its  own  proper  fuel ; namely,  by  the  affections. 

It  may  indeed  happen,  and  does  happen  often,  that  if  the 
master  is  a man  of  sense  and  energy,  a large  quantity  of 
material  work  may  be  done  under  mechanical  pressure,  en- 
forced by  strong  will  and  guided  by'  wise  method  ; also  it 
may  happen,  and  does  hapj)en  often,  that  if  the  master  is  in- 
dolent and  weak  (however  good-natured),  a very  small  quan- 
tity of  work,  and  that  bad,  may  be  produced  by  the  servant's 
undirected  strength,  and  contemptuous  gratitude.  But  the 
universal  law  of  the  matter  is  that,  assuming  any  given  quan- 
tity of  energy  and  sense  in  master  and  servant,  the  greatest 
material  result  obtainable  by  them  will  be,  not  through  an- 
tagonism to  each  other,  but  through  affection  for  each  other ; 
and  that  if  the  master,  instead  of  endeavouring  to  get  as 
much  work  as  possible  from  the  servant,  seeks  rather  to  ren- 
der his  appointed  and  necessary  work  beneficial  to  him,  and 
to  forward  his  interests  in  all  just  and  wholesome  ways,  the 
real  amount  of  wo^k  ultimately  done,  or  of  good  rendered, 


154  THE  ROOTS  OF  HONOUR. 

by  the  person  so  cared  for,  will  indeed  be  the  greatest  poa. 
Bible. 

Observe,  I say,  “of  good  rendered,”  for  a servant’s  work 
is  not  necessarily  or  always  the  best  thing  he  can  give  his 
master.  But  good  of  ail  kinds,  whether  in  material  service, 
in  protective  watchfulness  of  his  master’s  interest  and  credit,, 
or  in  joyful  readiness  to  seize  unexpected  and  irregular  occa- 
sions of  help. 

Nor  is  this  one  whit  less  generally  true  because  indulgence 
will  be  frequently  abused,  and  kindness  met  with  ingratitude. 
Bor  the  servant  who,  gently  treated,  is  ungrateful,  treated  un- 
gently,  will  be  revengeful ; and  the  man  who  is  dishonest  to  a 
liberal  master  will  be  injurious  to  an  unjust  one. 

In  any  case,  and  with  any  person,  this  unselfish  treatment 
will  produce  the  most  effective  return.  Observe,  I am  here 
considering  the  affections  'wholly  as  a motive  powrer  ; not  at 
all  as  things  in  themselves  desirable  or  noble,  or  in  any  other 
way  abstractedly  good.  I look  at  them  simply  as  an  anoma- 
lous force,  rendering  every  one  of  the  ordinary  political  econ- 
omist’s calculations  nugatory  ; while,  even  if  he  desired  to 
introduce  this  new  element  into  his  estimates,  he  has  no  power 
of  dealing  with  it  ; for  the  affections  only  become  a true  mo- 
tive power  when  they  ignore  every  other  motive  and  condi- 
tion of  political  economy.  Treat  the  servant  kindly,  with  the 
idea  of  turning  his  gratitude  to  account,  and  you  will  get,  as 
you  deserve,  no  gratitude,  nor  any  value  for  your  kindness ; 
but  treat  him  kindly  without  any  economical  purpose,  and  all 
economical  purposes  will  be  answered ; in  this,  as  in  all  other 
matters,  whosoever  will  save  his  life  shall  lose  it,  and  whoso 
loses  it  shall  find  it* 

* The  difference  between  the  two  modes  of  treatment,  and  between 
their  effective  material  results,  may  be  seen  very  accurately  by  a com- 
parison of  the  relations  of  Esther  and  Charlie  in  Bleak  House , with  those 
of  Miss  Brass  and  the  Marchioness  in  Master  Humphrey' s Clock. 

The  essential  value  and  truth  of  Dickens’s  writings  have  been  unwise- 
ly lost  sight  of  by  many  thoughtful  persons,  merely  because  he  presents 
his  truth  with  some  colour  of  caricature.  Unwisely,  because  Dickens's 
caricature,  though  often  gross,  is  never  mistaken.  Allowing  for  his 
manner  of  telling  them,  the  things  he  tells  us  are  always  true.  I wisfr 


THE  ROOTS  OF  HONOUR. 


155 


The  next  clearest  and  simplest  example  of  relation  between 
master  and  operative  is  that  which  exists  between  the  com- 
mander of  a regiment  and  his  men. 

Supposing  the  officer  only  desires  to  apply  the  rules  of  dis- 
cipline so  as,  with  least  trouble  to  himself,  to  make  the  regi- 
ment most  effective,  he  will  not  be  able,  by  any  rules,  or 
administration  of  rules,  on  this  selfish  principle,  to  develop 
the  full  strength  of  his  subordinates.  If  a man  of  sense  and 
firmness,  he  may,  as  in  the  former  instance,  produce  a better 
result  than  would  be  obtained  by  the  irregular  kindness  of  a 
weak  officer  ; but  let  the  sense  and  firmness  be  the  same  in 
both  cases,  and  assuredly  the  officer  who  has  the  most  direct 
personal  relations  with  his  men,  the  most  care  for  their  inter- 
ests, and  the  most  value  for  their  lives,  will  develop  their  effec- 
tive strength,  through  their  affection  for  his  own  person,  and 
trust  in  his  character,  to  a degree  wholly  unattainable  by  other 
means.  The  law  applies  still  more  stringently  as  the  numbers 
concerned  are  larger ; a charge  may  often  be  successful, 
though  the  men  dislike  their  officers  ; a battle  has  rarely  been 
won,  unless  they  loved  their  general. 

Passing  from  these  simple  examples  to  the  more  compli- 
cated relations  existing  between  a manufacturer  and  his  work- 
men, we  are  met  first  by  certain  curious  difficulties,  resulting, 

that  he  could  think  it  right  to  limit  his  brilliant  exaggeration  to  works 
written  only  for  public  amusement ; and  when  he  takes  up  a subject  of 
high  national  importance,  such  as  that  which  he  handled  in  Hard  Times , 
that  he  would  use  severer  and  more  accurate  analysis.  The  usefulness 
of  that  work  (to  my  mind,  in  several  respects,  the  greatest  he  has  writ- 
ten) is  with  many  persons  seriously  diminished  because  Mr.  Bounderbv 
is  a dramatic  monster,  instead  of  a characteristic  example  of  a worldly 
master  ; and  Stephen  Blackpool  a dramatic  perfection,  instead  of  a char- 
acteristic example  of  an  honest  workman.  But  let  us  not  lose  the  use 
of  Dickens’s  wit  and  insight,  because  be  chooses  to  speak  in  a circle  of 
stage  fire.  He  is  entirely  right  in  bis  main  drift  and  purpose  in  every 
book  he  has  written  ; and  all  of  them,  but  especially  Hard  Times , should 
be  studied  with  close  and  earnest  care  by  persons  interested  in  social 
questions.  They  will  find  much  that  is  partial,  and,  because  partial,  ap- 
parently unjust ; but  if  they  examine  all  the  evidence  on  the  other  side, 
which  Dickens  seems  to  overlook,  it  will  appear,  after  all  their  trouble, 
that  his  view  was  the  finally  right  one,  grossly  and  sharply  toldr 


150 


THE  ROOTS  OF  HONOUR, . 


apparently,  from  a harder  and  colder  state  of  moral  elements. 

It  is  easy  to  imagine  an  enthusiastic  affection  existing  among 
soldiers  for  the  colonel.  Not  so  easy  to  imagine  an  enthusias-  i 
tic  affection  among  cotton-spinners  for  the  proprietor  of  tho 
mill.  A body  of  men  associated  for  purposes  of  robbery  (as  a I 
Highland  clan  in  ancient  times)  shall  be  animated  by  perfect  ; 
affection,  and  every  member  of  it  be  ready  to  lay  down  his  life 
for  the  life  of  his  chief.  But  a band  of  men  associated  for 
purposes  of  legal  production  and  accumulation  is  usually  ani- 
mated, it  appears,  by  no  such  emotions,  and  none  of  them  are 
in  anywise  willing  to  give  his  life  for  the  life  of  his  chief. 
Not  only  are  we  met  by  this  apparent  anomaly,  in  moral 
matters,  but  by  others  connected  with  it,  in  administration  of 
system.  For  a servant  or  a soldier  is  engaged  at  a definite 
rate  of  wages,  for  a definite  period  ; but  a workman  at  a rate 
of  "wages  variable  according  to  the  demand  for  labour,  and 
with  the  risk  of  being  at  any  time  thrown  out  of  his  situation 
by  chances  of  trade.  Now,  as,  under  these  contingencies,  no 
action  of  the  affections  can  take  place,  but  only  an  explosive 
action  of  cZ/kaffections,  twro  points  offer  themselves  for  consid- 
eration in  the  matter. 

The  first — How  far  the  rate  of  wages  may  be  so  regulated 
as  not  to  vary  with  the  demand  for  labour. 

The  second — How  far  it  is  possible  that  bodies  of  workmen 
may  be  engaged  and  maintained  at  such  fixed  rate  of  wages 
(whatever  the  state  of  trade  may  be),  without  enlarging  or 
diminishing  their  number,  so  as  to  give  them  permanent  in- 
terest in  the  establishment  with  which  they  are  connected, 
like  that  of  the  domestic  servants  in  an  old  family,  or  an  esprit 
de  corps , like  that  of  the  soldiers  in  a crack  regiment. 

The  first  question  is,  I say,  how  far  it  may  be  possible  to 
fix  the  rate  of  wages  irrespectively  of  the  demand  for  labour. 

Perhaps  one  of  the  most  curious  facts  in  the  history  of 
human  error  is  the  denial  by  the  common  political  economist 
of  the  possibility  of  thus  regulating  wages  ; while  for  all  the 
important,  and  much  of  the  unimportant,  labour  on  the  earth, 
wages  are  already  so  regulated. 

We  do  not  sell  our  prime-ministership  by  Dutch  auction  - 


TIIFj  roots  of  honour. 


157 


nor,  on  the  decease  of  a bishop,  whatever  may  be  the  general 
advantages  of  simony,  do  we  (yet)  offer  his  diocese  to  the 
clergyman  who  will  take  the  episcopacy  at  the  lowest  contract. 
We  (with  exquisite  sagacity  of  political  economy  S)  do  indeed 
sell  commissions,  but  not  openly,  generalships : sick,  we  do 
not  inquire  for  a physician  who  takes  less  than  a guinea  ; li- 
tigious, we  never  think  of  reducing  six-and-eightpence  to  four- 
and-sixpence  ; caught  in  a shower,  we  do  not  canvass  the  cab- 
men, to  find  out  who  values  his  driving  at  less  than  sixpence 
a mile. 

It  is  true  that  in  all  these  cases  there  is,  and  in  every  con- 
ceivable case  there  must  be,  ultimate  reference  to  the  pre- 
sumed difficulty  of  the  work,  or  number  of  candidates  for  the 
office.  If  it  were  thought  that  the  labour  necessary  to  make 
a good  physician  would  be  gone  through  by  a sufficient  num- 
ber of  students  with  the  prospect  of  only  half-guinea  fees, 
public  consent  would  soon  withdraw  the  unnecessary  half- 
guinea. In  this  ultimate  sense,  the  price  of  labour  is  indeed 
always  regulated  by  the  demand  for  it ; but  so  far  as  the 
practical  and  immediate  administration  of  the  matter  is  re- 
garded, the  best  labour  always  has  been,  and  is,  as  all  labour 
ought  to  be,  paid  by  an  invariable  standard. 

“ What ! ” the  reader,  perhaps,  answers  amazedly  : “ pay 
good  and  bad  workmen  alike  ? ” 

Certainly.  The  difference  between  one  prelate’s  sermons 
and  his  successor’s, — or  between  one  physician’s  opinion  and 
another’s, — is  far  greater,  as  respects  the  qualities  of  mind  in* 
volved.  and  far  more  important  in  result  to  you  personally, 
than  the  difference  between  good  and  bad  laying  of  bricks 
(though  that  is  greater  than  most  people  suppose).  Yet  you 
pay  with  equal  fee,  contentedly,  the  good  and  bad  workmen 
upon  your  soul,  and  the  good  and  bad  workmen  upon  your 
body  ; much  more  may  you  pay,  contentedly,  with  equal  fees, 
the  good  and  bad  workmen  upon  your  house. 

“ Nay,  but  I choose  my  physician  and  (?)  my  clergyman, 
thus  indicating  my  sense  of  the  quality  of  their  work.”  By 
all  means,  also,  choose  your  bricklayer  ; that  is  the  proper  re* 
ward  of  the  good  workman,  to  be  “ chosen.”  The  natural  and 


153 


THE  HOOTS  OF  HOE  OUR 


right  system  respecting  all  labour  is,  that  it  should  be  paid  at 
a fixed  rate,  but  the  good  workman  employed,  and  the  bad 
workman  unemployed.  The  false,  unnatural,  and  destruc- 
tive system  is  when  the  bad  workman  is  allowed  to  offer  his 
work  at  half-price,  and  either  take  the  place  of  the  good,  or 
force  him  by  his  competition  to  work  for  an  inadequate  sum, 

This  equality  of  wages,  then,  being  the  first  object  towards 
which  we  have  to  discover  the  clirectest  available  road  ; the 
second  is,  as  above  stated,  that  of  maintaining  constant  num- 
bers of  workmen  in  employment,  whatever  may  be  the  acci- 
dental demand  for  the  article  they  produce. 

i believe  the  sudden  and  extensive  inequalities  of  demand 
which  necessarily  arise  in  the  mercantile  operations  of  an  ac- 
tive nation,  constitute  the  only  essential  difficulty  which  has 
to  be  overcome  in  a just  organization  of  labour.  The  subject 
opens  into  too  many  branches  to  admit  of  being  investigated 
in  a paper  of  this  kind  ; but  the  following  general  facts  bear- 
ing on  it  may  be  noted. 

The  wages  wdiich  enable  any  workman  to  live  are  necessa- 
rily higher,  if  his  work  is  liable  to  intermission,  than  if  it  is 
.assured  and  continuous  ; and  however  severe  the  struggle  for 
work  may  become,  the  general  law  will  always  hold,  that  men 
must  get  more  daily  pay  if,  on  the  average,  they  can  only  cal- 
culate on  work  three  days  a week,  than  they  would  require  if 
they  were  sure  of  work  six  days  a week.  Supposing  that  a man 
cannot  live  on  less  than  a shilling  a day,  his  seven  shillings  he 
must  get,  either  for  three  days’  violent  work,  or  six  days’  de- 
liberate work.  The  tendency  of  all  modern  mercantile  opera- 
tions is  to  throw  both  wages  and  trade  into  the  form  of  a lot. 
tery,  and  to  make  the  workman’s  pay  depend  on  intermittent 
exertion,  and  the  principal’s  profit  on  dexterously  used  chance. 

In  what  partial  degree,  I repeat,  this  may  be  necessary,  in 
consequence  of  the  activities  of  modern  trade,  I do  not  here 
investigate  ; contenting  myself  with  the  fact,  that  in  its  fatal  - 
lest  aspects  it  is  assuredly  unnecessary,  and  results  merely 
from  love  of  gambling  on  the  part  of  the  masters,  and  from 
Ignorance  and  sensuality  in  the  men.  The  masters  cannot 
bear  to  let  any  opportunity  of  gain  escape  them,  and  franti- 


THE  HOOTS  OF  HONOUR. 


159 


eally  rush  at  every  gap  and  breach  in  the  walls  of  Fortune, 
raging  to  be  rich,  and  affronting,  with  impatient  covetousness, 
every  risk  of  ruin  ; while  the  men  prefer  three  days  of  violent 
labour,  and  three  days  of  drunkenness,  to  six  days  of  moder- 
ate work  and  wise  rest.  There  is  no  way  in  which  a principal, 
who  really  desires  to  help  his  workmen,  may  do  it  more  ef- 
fectually than  by  checking  these  disorderly  habits  both  in 
himself  and  them  ; keeping  his  own  business  operations  on  a 
scale  which  will  enable  him  to  pursue  them  securely,  not 
yielding  to  temptations  of  precarious  gain  ; and,  at  the  same 
time,  leading  his  workmen  into  regular  habits  of  labour  and 
life,  either  by  inducing  them  rather  to  take  low  wages  in  the 
form  of  a fixed  salary,  than  high  wages,  subject  to  the  chance 
of  their  being  thrown  out  of  work  ; or,  if  this  be  impossible, 
by  discouraging  the  system  of  violent  exertion  for  nominally 
high  day  wages,  and  leading  the  men  to  take  lower  pay  for 
more  regular  labour. 

In  effecting  any  radical  changes  of  this  kind,  doubtless 
there  would  be  great  inconvenience  and  loss  incurred  by  all 
the  originators  of  movement.  That  which  can  be  done  with 

O 

perfect  convenience  and  without  loss,  is  not  always  the  thing 
that  most  needs  to  be  done,  or  which  we  are  most  impera- 
tively required  to  do. 

I have  already  alluded  to  the  difference  hitherto  existing 
between  regiments  of  men  associated  for  purposes  of  violence, 
and  for  purposes  of  manufacture  ; in  that  the  former  appear 
capable  of  self-sacrifice — the  latter,  not ; which  singular  fact 
is  the  real  reason  of  the  general  lowness  of  estimate  in  which 
the  profession  of  commerce  is  held,  as  compared  with  that  of 
arms.  Philosophically,  it  does  not,  at  first  sight,  appear  rea- 
sonable (many  writers  have  endeavoured  to  prove  it  unrea- 
sonable) that  a peaceable  and  rational  person,  whose  trade  is 
buying  and  selling,  should  be  held  in  less  honour  than  an  un- 
peaceable  and  often  irrational  person,  whose  trade  is  slaying. 
Nevertheless,  the  consent  of  mankind  has  always,  in  spite  of 
the  philosophers,  given  precedence  to  the  soldier. 

And  this  is  right. 

For  the  soldier’s  trade,  verily  and  essentially,  is  not  slay* 


160 


THE  ROOTS  OF  HONOUR. 


ing,  but  being  slain.  This,  without  well  knowing  its  owr, 
meaning,  the  world  honours  it  for.  A bravo’s  trade  is  slay- 
ing ; but  the  world  has  never  respected  bravos  more  than 
merchants : the  reason  it  honours  the  soldier  is,  because  he 
holds  his  life  at  the  service  of  the  State.  Eeckless  he  may  be 
— fond  of  pleasure  or  of  adventure — all  kinds  of  bye  motives 
and  mean  impulses  may  have  determined  the  choice  of  his 
profession,  and  may  affect  (to  ail  appearance  exclusively)  his 
daily  conduct  in  it ; but  our  estimate  of  him  is  based  on  this 
ultimate  fact — of  which  we  are  well  assured — that,  put  him  in 
a fortress  breach,  with  all  the  pleasures  of  the  world  behind 
him,  and  only  death  and  his  duty  in  front  of  him,  he  will 
keep  his  face  to  the  front ; and  he  knows  that  this  choice  may 
be  put  to  him  at  any  moment,  and  has  beforehand  taken  his 
part — virtually  takes  such  part  continually — does,  in  reality, 
die  daily. 

Not  less  is  the  respect  we  pay  to  the  lawyer  and  physician, 
founded  ultimately  on  their  self-sacrifice.  Whatever  the  learn- 
ing or  acuteness  of  a great  lawyer,  our  chief  respect  for  him 
depends  on  our  belief  that,  set  in  a judge’s  seat,  he  will  strive 
to  judge  justly,  come  of  it  what  may.  Could  we  suppose  that 
he  would  take  bribes,  and  rise  his  acuteness  and  legal  knowl- 
edge to  give  plausibility  to  iniquitous  decisions,  no  degree  of 
intellect  would  win  for  him  our  respect.  Nothing  will  win  it, 
short  of  our  tacit  conviction,  that  in  all  important  acts  of  his 
life  justice  is  first  with  him  ; his  own  interest,  second. 

In  the  case  of  a physician,  the  ground  of  the  honour  we 
render  him  is  clearer  still.  Whatever  his  science,  we  should 
shrink  from  him  in  horror  if  we  found  him  regard  his  patients 
merely  as  subjects  to  experiment  upon  ; much  more,  if  we  found 
that,  receiving  bribes  from  persons  interested  in  their  deaths, 
he  wras  using  his  best  skill  to  give  poison  in  the  mask  of  medicine. 

Finally,  the  principle  holds  with  utmost  clearness  as  it  re- 
spects clergymen.  No  goodness  of  disposition  will  excuse 
want  of  science  in  a physician  or  of  shrewdness  in  an  advo- 
cate ; but  a clergyman,  even  though  his  power  of  intellect  be 
small,  is  respected  on  the  presumed  ground  of  his  unselfish 
ness  and  serviceableness. 


THE  ROOTS  OF  HONOUR. 


1G1 


Now  there  can  be  no  question  but  that  the  tact,  foresight, 
decision,  and  other  mental  powers,  required  for  the  success- 
ful management  of  a large  mercantile  concern,  if  not  such  as 
could  be  compared  with  those  of  a great  lawyer,  general,  or 
divine,  would  at  least  match  the  general  conditions  of  mind 
required  in  the  subordinate  officers  of  a ship,  or  of  a regiment, 
or  in  the  curate  of  a country  parish.  If,  therefore,  all  the 
efficient  members  of  the  so-called  liberal  professions  are  still, 
somehow,  in  public  estimate  of  honour,  preferred  before  the 
head  of  a commercial  firm,  the  reason  must  lie  deeper  than  in 
the  measurement  of  their  several  powers  of  mind. 

And  the  essential  reason  for  such  preference  will  be  found 
to  lie  in  the  fact  that  the  merchant  is  presumed  to  act  always 
selfishly.  His  'work  may  be  very  necessary  to  the  commu- 
nity ; but  the  motive  of  it  is  understood  to  be  wholly  per- 
sonal. The  merchant’s  first  object  in  all  his  dealings  must  be 
(the  public  believe)  to  get  as  much  for  himself,  and  leave  as 
little  to  his  neighbour  (or  customer)  as  possible.  Enforcing 
this  upon  him,  by  political  statute,  as  the  necessary  principle 
of  his  action  ; recommending  it  to  him  on  all  occasions,  and 
themselves  reciprocally  adopting  it ; proclaiming  vociferously, 
for  law  of  the  universe,  that  a buyer’s  function  is  to  cheapen, 
and  a seller’s  to  cheat, — the  public,  nevertheless,  involuntarily 
condemn  the  man  of  commerce  for  his  compliance  with  their 
own  statement,  and  stamp  him  for  ever  as  belonging  to  an 
inferior  grade  of  human  personality. 

This  they  will  find,  eventually,  they  must  give  up  doing. 
They  must  not  cease  to  condemn  selfishness ; but  they  will 
have  to  discover  a kind  of  commerce  which  is  not  exclusively 
selfish.  Or,  rather,  they  will  have  to  discover  that  there  never 
was,  or  can  be,  any  other  kind  of  commerce  ; that  this  which 
they  have  called  commerce  was  not  commerce  at  all,  but 
cozening ; and  that  a true  merchant  differs  as  much  from  a 
merchant  according  to  laws  of  modern  political  economy,  as 
the  hero  of  the  Excursion  from  Autolycus.  They  will  find 
that  commerce  is  an  occupation  which  gentlemen  will  every 
day  see  more  need  to  engage  in,  rather  than  in  the  busi- 
nesses of  talking  to  men,  or  slaying  them  ; that,  in  true  coni' 


162 


THE  ROOTS  OF  HONOUR. 


merce,  as  in  true  preaching,  or  true  fighting,  it  is  necessary 
to  admit  the  idea  of  occasional  -voluntary  loss ; — that  six- 
pences have  to  he  lost,  as  well  as  lives,  under  a sense  of  duty  ; 
that  the  market  may  have  its  martyrdoms  as  well  as  the  pul- 
pit ; and  trade  its  heroisms,  as  well  as  war. 

May  have — in  the  final  issue,  must  have — and  only  has  not 
had  yet,  because  men  of  heroic  temper  have  always  been  mis- 
guided in  their  youth  into  other  fields,  not  recognizing  what 
is  in  our  days,  perhaps,  the  most  important  of  all  fields  ; so 
that,  while  many  a zealous  person  loses  his  life  in  trying  to 
teach  the  form  of  a gospel,  very  few  will  lose  a hundred  pounds 
in  showing  the  practice  of  one. 

The  fact  is,  that  people  never  have  had  clearly  explained 
to  them  the  true  functions  of  a merchant  with  respect  to 
other  people.  I should  like  the  reader  to  be  very  clear  about 
this. 

Five  great  intellectual  professions,  relating  to  daily  neces- 
sities of  life,  have  hitherto  existed — three  exist  necessarily,  in 
every  civilized  nation  : 

The  Soldier’s  profession  is  to  defend  it. 

The  Pastor’s,  to  teach  it. 

The  Physician’s,  to  keep  it  in  health. 

The  Lawyer's,  to  enforce  justice. 

The  Merchant’s,  to  provide  for  it. 

And  the  duty  of  all  these  men  is,  on  due  occasion,  to  die 
for  it. 

“ On  due  occasion,”  namely  : — 

The  Soldier,  rather  than  leave  his  post  in  battle. 

The  Physician,  rather  than  leave  his  post  in  plague. 

The  Pastor,  rather  than  teach  Falsehood. 

The  Lawyer,  rather  than  countenance  Injustice. 

The  Merchant — What  is  his  “ due  occasion  ” of  death  ? 

It  is  the  main  question  for  the  merchant,  as  for  all  of  uSc 
For,  truly,  the  man  who  does  not  know  when  to  die,  does  not 
know  how  to  live. 

Observe,  the  merchant’s  function  (or  manufacturer’s,  for  in 
the  broad  sense  in  which  it  is  here  used  the  word  must  be 
understood  to  include  both)  is  to  provide  for  the  nation.  It 


THE  ROOTS  OF  HONOUR. 


100 

is  no  more  liis  function  to  get  profit  for  himself  out  of  that 
provision  than  it  is  a clergyman’s  function  to  get  his  stipend. 
The  stipend  is  a due  and  necessary  adjunct,  but  not  the  ob- 
ject, of  his  life,  if  he  be  a true  clergyman,  any  more  than  his 
fee  (or  honorarium)  is  the  object  of  life  to  a true  physician. 
Neither  is  his  fee  the  object  of  life  to  a true  merchant.  All 
three,  if  true  men,  have  a work  to  be  done  irrespective  of  fee 
— to  be  done  even  at  any  cost,  or  for  quite  the  contrary  of 
fee  ; the  pastor’s  function  being  to  teach,  the  physician’s  to 
heal,  and  the  merchant’s,  as  I have  said,  to  provide.  That  is 
to  say,  he  has  to  understand  to  their  very  root  the  qualities 
of  the  thing  he  deals  in,  and  the  means  of  obtaining  or 
producing  if  ; and  he  has  to  apply  all  his  sagacity  and 
energy  to  the  producing  or  obtaining  it  in  perfect  state,  and 
distributing  it  at  the  cheapest  possible  price  where  it  is  most 
needed. 

And  because  the  production  or  obtaining  of  any  commod- 
ity involves  necessarily  the  agency  of  many  lives  and  hands, 
the  merchant  becomes  in  the  course  of  his  business  the  master 
and  governor  of  large  masses  of  men  in  a more  direct,  though 
less  confessed  way,  than  a military  officer  or  pastor  ; so  that 
on  him  falls,  in  great  part,  the  responsibility  for  the  kind  of 
life  they  lead  : and  it  becomes  his  duty,  not  only  to  be  always 
considering  how  to  produce  what  he  sells  in  the  purest  and 
cheapest  forms,  but  how  to  make  the  various  employments 
involved  in  the  production,  or  transference  of  it,  most  benefi- 
cial to  the  men  employed. 

And  as  into  these  two  functions,  requiring  for  their  right 
exercise  the  highest  intelligence,  as  well  as  patience,  kindness, 
and  tact,  the  merchant  is  bound  to  put  all  his  energy,  so  for 
their  just  discharge  he  is  bound,  as  soldier  or  physician  is 
bound,  to  give  up,  if  need  be,  his  life,  in  such  way  as  may 
be  demanded  of  him.  Two  main  points  he  has  in  his  provid- 
ing function  to  maintain : first,  his  engagements  (faithfulness 
to  engagements  being  the  real  root  of  ail  possibilities  in 
commerce)  ; and,  secondly,  the  perfectness  and  purity  of  the 
thing  provided  ; so  that,  rather  than  fail  in  any  engage- 
ment, or  consent  to  any  deterioration,  adulteration,  or  unjust 


164 


THE  ROOTS  OF  HONOUR. 


and  exorbitant  price  of  that  which  he  provides,  he  is  bound 
to  meet  fearlessly  any  form  of  distress,  poverty,  or  labour, 
which  may,  through  maintenance  of  these  points,  come  upon 
him. 

Again  : in  his  office  as  governor  of  the  men  employed  by 
him,  the  merchant  or  manufacturer  is  invested  with  a distinctly 
paternal  authority  and  responsibility.  In  most  cases,  a youth 
entering  a commercial  establishment  is  withdrawn  altogether 
from  home  influence  ; his  master  must  become  his  father,  else 
he  has,  for  practical  and  constant  help,  no  father  at  hand  : in 
all  cases  the  master’s  authority,  together  with  the  general 
tone  and  atmosphere  of  his  business,  and  the  character  of 
the  men  with  whom  the  youth  is  compelled  in  the  course  of 
it  to  associate,  have  more  immediate  and  pressing  weight  than 
the  home  influence,  and  will  usually  neutralize  it  either  for 
good  or  evil ; so  that  the  only  means  which  the  master  has  of 
doing  justice  to  the  men  employed  by  him  is  to  ask  himself 
sternly  whether  he  is  dealing  with  such  subordinate  as  he 
would  with  his  own  son,  if  compelled  by  circumstances  to  take 
such  a position. 

Supposing  the  captain  of  a frigate  saw  it  right,  or  were  by 
any  chance  obliged,  to  place  his  own  son  in  the  position  of  a 
common  sailor ; as  he  would  then  treat  his  son,  he  is  bound 
always  to  treat  every  one  of  the  men  under  him.  So,  also, 
supposing  the  master  of  a manufactory  saw  it  right,  or  were 
by  any  chance  obliged,  to  place  his  own  son  in  the  position  of 
an  ordinary  workman  ; as  he  would  then  treat  his  son,  he  i3 
bound  always  to  treat  every  one  of  his  men.  This  is  the  only 
effective,  true,  or  practical  Rule  which  can  be  given  on  this 
point  of  political  economy. 

And  as  the  captain  of  a ship  is  bound  to  be  the  last  man  to 
leave  his  ship  in  case  of  wreck,  and  to  share  his  last  crust 
with  the  sailors  in  case  of  famine,  so  the  manufacturer,  in  any 
commercial  crisis  or  distress,  is  bound  to  take  the  suffering 
of  it  with  his  men,  and  even  to  take  more  of  it  for  himself 
than  he  allows  his  men  to  feel ; as  a father  would  in  a famine, 
shipwreck,  or  battle,  sacrifice  himself  for  his  son. 

All  which  sounds  very  strange  ; the  only  real  strangeness 


THE  ROOTS  OF  HONOUR. 


1 65 


iu  the  matter  being,  nevertheless,  that  it  should  so  sound. 
For  all  this  is  true,  and  that  not  partially  nor  theoretically, 
but  everlastingly  and  practically  : all  other  doctrine  than  this 
respecting  matters  political  being  false  in  premises,  absurd  in 
deduction,  and  impossible  in  practice,  consistently  with  any 
progressive  state  of  national  life  ; all  the  life  which  we  now 
possess  as  a nation  showing  itself  in  the  resolute  denial  and 
scorn,  by  a few  strong  minds  and  faithful  hearts,  of  the 
economic  principles  taught  to  our  multitudes,  which  princi- 
ples, so  far  as  accepted,  lead  straight  to  national  destruction. 
Respecting  the  modes  and  forms  of  destruction  to  which  they 
lead,  and,  on  the  other  hand,  respecting  the  farther  practical 
working  of  true  polity,  I hope  to  reason  further  in  a following 
paper. 


ESSAY  II 


THE  VEINS  OF  WEALTH. 

The  answer  which  would  be  made  by  any  ordinary  political 
economist  to  the  statements  contained  in  the  preceding  paper, 
is  in  few  words  as  follows  : — 

“It  is  indeed  true  that  certain  advantages  of  a general 
nature  may  be  obtained  by  the  development  of  social  affec- 
tions. But  political  economists  never  professed,  nor  profess, 
to  take  advantages  of  a general  nature  into  consideration. 
Our  science  is  simply  the  science  of  getting  rich.  So  far 
from  being  a fallacious  or  visionary  one,  it  is  found  by  ex- 
perience to  be  practically  effective.  Persons  who  follow  its 
precepts  do  actually  become  rich,  and  persons  who  disobey 
them  become  poor.  Every  capitalist  of  Europe  has  acquired 
his  fortune  by  following  the  known  laws  of  our  science,  and 
increases  his  capital  daily  by  an  adherence  to  them.  It  is 
vain  to  bring  forward  tricks  of  logic,  against  the  force  of 
accomplished  facts.  Every  man  of  business  knows  by  experi- 
ence how  money  is  made,  and  how  it  is  lost.” 

Pardon  me.  Men  of  business  do  indeed  know  how  they 
themselves  made  their  money,  or  how,  on  occasion,  they  lost 
it.  Playing  a long-practised  game,  they  are  familiar  with  the 
chances  of  its  cards,  and  can  rightly  explain  their  losses  and 
gains.  But  they  neither  know  who  keeps  the  bank  of  the 
gambling-house,  nor  what  other  games  may  be  played  with 
the  same  cards,  nor  what  other  losses  and  gains,  far  away 
among  the  dark  streets,  are  essentially,  though  invisibly,  de- 
pendent on  theirs  in  the  lighted  rooms.  They  have  learned 
a few,  and  only  a few,  of  the  laws  of  mercantile  economy ; but 
not  one  of  those  of  political  economy. 

Primarily,  which  is  very  notable  and  curious,  I observe 
that  men  of  business  rarely  know  the  meaning  of  the  word 


TEE  VEIN'S  OF  WEALTH. 


167 


“rich.”  At  least  if  they  know,  they  do  not  in  their  reason- 
ings allow  for  the  fact,  that  it  is  a relative  word,  implying  its 
opposite  “poor”  as  positively  as  the  word  “north”  implies 
its  opposite  “ south.”  Men  nearly  always  speak  and  write  as 
if  riches  were  absolute,  and  it  were  possible,  by  following 
certain  scientific  precepts,  for  everybody  to  be  rich.  Whereas 
riches  are  a power  like  that  of  electricity,  acting  only  through 
inequalities  or  negations  of  itself.  The  force  of  the  guinea 
you  have  in  your  pocket  depends  wholly  on  the  default  of  a 
guinea  in  your  neighbour’s  pocket.  If  he  did  not  want  it,  it 
would  be  of  no  use  to  you  ; the  degree  of  power  it  possesses 
depends  accurately  upon  the  need  or  desire  he  has  for  it, — 
and  the  art  of  making  yourself  rich,  in  the  ordinary  mercan- 
tile economist’s  sense,  is  therefore  equally  and  necessarily  the 
art  of  keeping  your  neighbour  poor. 

I would  not  contend  in  this  matter  (and  rarely  in  any  mat- 
ter), for  the  acceptance  of  terms.  But  I wish  the  reader 
clearly  and  deeply  to  understand  the  difference  between  the 
two  economies,  to  which  the  terms  “ Political ” and  “Mer- 
cantile ” might  not  unadvisably  be  attached. 

Political  economy  (the  economy  of  a State,  or  of  citizens) 
consists  simply  in  the  production,  preservation,  and  distribu- 
tion, at  fittest  time  and  place,  of  useful  or  pleasurable  things. 
The  farmer  who  cuts  his  hay  at  the  right  time  ; the  ship- 
wright who  drives  his  bolts  well  home  in  sound  wood  ; the 
builder  who  lays  good  bricks  in  well-tempered  mortar  ; the 
housewife  who  takes  care  of  her  furniture  in  the  parlour,  and 
guards  against  all  waste  in  her  kitchen  ; and  the  singer  who 
rightly  disciplines,  and  never  overstrains  her  voice  : are  all 
political  economists  in  the  true  and  final  sense  ; adding  con- 
tinually to  the  riches  and  well-being  of  the  nation  to  which 
they  belong. 

But  mercantile  economy,  the  economy  of  “ merces  ” or  of 
“pay,”  signifies  the  accumulation,  in  the  hands  of  individuals, 
of  legal  or  moral  claim  ujDon,  or  power  over,  the  labour  of 
others  ; every  such  claim  implying  precisely  as  much  poverty 
or  debt  on  one  side,  as  it  implies  riches  or  right  on  the  other. 

It  does  not,  therefore,  necessarily  involve  an  addition  to 


1GS 


THE  VEINS  OF  WEALTH. 


the  actual  property,  or  well-being,  of  the  State  in  which  it 
exists.  But  since  this  commercial  wealth,  or  power  over  la- 
bour, is  nearly  always  convertible  at  once  into  real  property, 
while  real  property  is  not  always  convertible  at  once  into 
power  over  labour,  the  idea  of  riches  among  active  men  in 
.civilized  nations,  generally  refers  to  commercial  wealth  ; and 
in  estimating  their  possessions,  they  rather  calculate  the  value 
of  their  horses  and  fields  by  the  number  of  guineas  they 
could  get  for  them,  than  the  value  of  their  guineas  by  the 
number  of  horses  and  fields  they  could  buy  with  them. 

There  is,  however,  another  reason  for  this  habit  of  mind  ; 
namely,  that  an  accumulation  of  real  property  is  of  little  use 
to  its  owner,  unless,  together  with  it,  he  has  commercial 
power  over  labour.  Thus,  suppose  any  person  to  be  put  in 
possession  of  a large  estate  of  fruitful  land,  with  rich  beds  oi 
gold  in  its  gravel,  countless  herds  of  cattle  in  its  pastures ; 
houses,  and  gardens,  and  storehouses  full  of  useful  stores, 
but  suppose,  after  all,  that  he  could  get  no  servants?  In 
order  that  he  may  be  able  to  have  servants,  some  one  in  his 
neighbourhood  must  be  poor,  and  in  want  of  his  gold — or  his 
corn.  Assume  that  no  one  is  in  want  of  either,  and  that  no 
servants  are  to  be  had.  He  must,  therefore,  bake  his  own 
bread,  make  his  own  clothes,  plough  his  own  ground,  and 
shepherd  his  own  flocks.  His  gold  will  be  as  useful  to  him 
as  any  other  yellow  pebbles  on  his  estate.  His  stores  must 
rot,  for  he  cannot  consume  them.  He  can  eat  no  more  than 
another  man  could  eat,  and  wear  no  more  than  another  man 
could  wear.  He  must  lead  a life  of  severe  and  common  la- 
bour to  procure  even  ordinary  comforts  ; he  will  be  ultimate- 
ly unable  to  keep  either  houses  in  repair,  or  fields  in  cultiva- 
tion ; and  forced  to  content  himself  with  a poor  man’s  portion 
of  cottage  and  garden,  in  the  midst  of  a desert  of  waste  land, 
trampled  by  wild  cattle,  and  encumbered  by  ruins  of  palaces, 
which  he  will  hardly  mock  at  himself  by  calling  “his  own.” 

The  most  covetous  of  mankind,  with  small  exultation,  I 
presume,  accept  riches  of  this  kind  on  these  terms.  What  is 
really  desired,  under  the  name  of  riches,  is,  essentially,  power 
over  men  ; in  its  simplest  sense,  the  power  of  obtaining  for 


THE  VEINS  OF  WEALTH. 


160 


our  own  advantage  the  labour  of  servant,  tradesman,  and  ar- 
tist ; in  wider  sense,  authority  of  directing  large  masses  of 
the  nation  to  various  ends  (good,  trivial,  or  hurtful,  according 
to  the  mind  of  the  rich  person).  And  this  power  of  wealth  of 
course  is  greater  or  less  in  direct  proportion  to  the  poverty 
of  the  men  over  whom  it  is  exercised,  and  in  inverse  propor- 
tion to  the  number  of  persons  who  are  as  rich  as  ourselves,  and 
who  are  ready  to  give  the  same  price  for  an  article  of  which  the 
supply  is  limited.  If  the  musician  is  poor,  he  will  sing  for 
small  pay,  as  long  as  there  is  only  one  person  who  can  pay 
him ; but  if  there  be  two  or  three,  lie  will  sing  for  the  one 
who  offers  him  most.  And  thus  the  power  of  the  riches  of 
the  patron  (always  imperfect  and  doubtful,  as  we  shall  see 
presently,  even  when  most  authoritative)  depends  first  on  the 
poverty  of  the  artist,  and  then  on  the  limitation  of  the  num- 
ber of  equally  wealthy  persons,  who  also  want  seats  at  the 
concert.  So  that,  as  above  stated,  the  art  of  becoming  “ rich,” 
in  the  common  sense,  is  not  absolutely  nor  finally  the  art  of 
accumulating  much  money  for  ourselves,  but  also  of  contriv- 
ing that  our  neighbours  shall  have  less.  In  accurate  terms, 
it  is  “ the  art  of  establishing  the  maximum  inequality  in  our 
own  favour.” 

Now  the  establishment  of  such  inequality  cannot  be  shown 
in  the  abstract  to  be  either  advantageous  or  disadvantageous 
to  the  body  of  the  nation.  The  rash  and  absurd  assumption 
that  such  inequalities  are  necessarily  advantageous,  lies  at  the 
root  of  most  of  the  popular  fallacies  on  the  subject  of  political 
economy.  For  the  eternal  and  inevitable  law  in  this  matter 
is,  that  the  beneficialness  of  the  inequality  depends,  first,  on 
the  methods  by  which  it  was  accomplished,  and,  secondly,  on 
the  purposes  to  which  it  is  applied.  Inequalities  of  wealth, 
unjustly  established,  have  assuredly  injured  the  nation  in  which 
they  exist  during  their  establishment ; and,  unjustly  directed, 
injure  it  yet  more  during  their  existence.  But  inequalities  of 
wealth  justly  established,  benefit  the  nation  in  the  course  of 
their  establishment ; and  nobly  used,  aid  it  yet  more  by  their 
existence.  That  is  to  say,  among  every  active  and  well-gov- 
erned people,  the  various  strength  of  individuals,  tested  by 
3 


170 


THE  YEWS  OF  WEALTH. 


full  exertion  and  specially  applied  to  various  need,  issues  in 
unequal,  but  harmonious  results,  receiving  reward  or  authority 
according  to  its  class  and  service  ; * while  in  the  inactive  os 
ill-governed  nation,  the  gradations  of  decay  and  the  victories 
of  treason  work  out  also  their  own  rugged  system  of  subjec- 
tion and  success  ; and  substitute,  for  the  melodious  inequali- 
ties of  concurrent  power,  the  iniquitous  dominances  and  de- 
pressions of  guilt  and  misfortune. 

Thus  the  circulation  of  wealth  in  a nation  resembles  that 
of  the  blood  in  the  natural  body.  There  is  one  quickness  of 
the  current  which  comes  of  cheerful  emotion  or  wholesome 
exercise ; and  another  which  comes  of  shame  or  of  fever. 

* I have  been  naturally  asked  several  times,  with  respect  to  the  sentence 
in  the  first  of  these  papers,  ‘'the  bad  workmen  unemployed,”  “But 
what  are  you  to  do  with  your  bad  unemployed  workmen  ? ” Well,  i/ 
seems  to  me  the  question  might  have  occurred  to  you  before.  Your 
housemaid  s place  is  vacant — you  give  twenty  pounds  a year — two  girls 
come  for  it,  one  neatly  dressed,  the  other  dirtily  ; one  with  good  recom- 
mendations, the  other  with  none.  You  do  not,  under  these  circumstan- 
ces, usually  ask  the  dirty  one  if  she  will  come  for  fifteen  pounds,  or 
twelve;  and,  on  her  consenting,  take  her  instead  of  the  well-recom- 
mended one.  Still  less  do  you  try  to  beat  both  down  by  making  them 
bid  against  each  other,  till  you  can  hire  both,  one  at  twelve  pounds  a 
year,  and  the  other  at  eight.  You  simply  take  the  one  fittest  for  the 
place,  and  send  away  the  other,  not  perhaps  concerning  yourself  quite 
as  much  as  you  should  with  the  question  which  you  now  impatiently 
put  to  me,  “What  is  to  become  of  her  ? ” For  all  that  I advise  you  to 
do,  is  to  deal  with  workmen  as  with  servants ; and  verily  the  question  is 
of  weight : “ Your  bad  workman,  idler,  and  rogue — what  are  you  to  do 
with  him  ? ’’ 

We  will  consider  of  this  presently  : remember  that  the  administration 
of  a complete  system  of  national  commerce  and  industry  cannot  be  ex- 
plained in  full  detail  within  the  space  of  twelve  pages.  Meantime,  con- 
sider whether,  there  being  confessedly  some  difficulty  in  dealing  witJi 
rogues  and  idlers,  it  may  not  be  advisable  to  produce  as  few  of  them  as 
possible.  If  you  examine  into  the  history  of  rogues,  you  will  find  they 
are  as  truly  manufactured  articles  as  anything  else,  and  it  is  just  be- 
cause our  present  system  of  political  economy  gives  so  large  a stimulus 
*o  that  manufacture  that  you  may  know  it  to  be  a false  one.  We  had 
better  seek  for  a system  which  will  develop  honest  men,  than  for  on* 
which  will  deal  cunningly  with  vagabonds.  Let  us  reform  our  schools 
and  we  shall  find  little  reform  needed  in  our  prisons. 


THE  VEINS  OF  WEALTH.  171 

There  is  a flush  of  the  body  which  is  full  of  warmth  and  life  \ 
and  another  which  will  pass  in  to  putrefaction. 

The  analogy  will  hold,  down  even  to  minute  particulars. 
For  as  diseased  local  determination  of  the  blood  involves 
depression  of  the  general  health  of  the  system,  all  morbid 
local  action  of  riches  will  be  found  ultimately  to  involve  a 
weakening  of  the  resources  of  the  body  politic. 

The  mode  in  which  this  is  produced  may  be  at  once  under-, 
stood  by  examining  one  or  two  instances  of  the  development 
of  wealth  in  the  simplest  possible  circumstances. 

Suppose  two  sailors  cast  away  on  an  uninhabited  coast,  and 
obliged  to  maintain  themselves  there  by  their  own  labour  for 
a series  of  3rears. 

If  they  both  kept  their  health,  and  worked  steadily,  and  in 
amity  with  each  other,  they  might  build  themselves  a con- 
venient house,  and  in  time  come  to  possess  a certain  quantity 
of  cultivated  land,  together  with  various  stores  laid  up  for 
future  use.  All  these  things  would  be  real  riches  or  prop- 
erty ; and  supposing  the  men  both  to  have  worked  equally 
hard,  they  would  each  have  right  to  equal  share  or  use  of  it. 
Their  political  economy  would  consist  merely  in  careful  pres- 
ervation and  just  division  of  these  possessions.  Perhaps, 
however,  after  some  time  one  or  other  might  be  dissatisfied 
with  the  results  of  their  common  farming ; and  they  might 
in  consequence  agree  to  divide  the  land  they  had  brought 
under  the  spade  into  equal  shares,  so  that  each  might  thence- 
forward work  in  his  own  field  and  live  by  it.  Suppose  that 
after  this  arrangement  had  been  made,  one  of  them  were  to 
fall  iil,  and  be  unable  to  work  on  his  land  at  a critical  time — * 
say  of  sowing  or  harvest. 

He  would  naturally  ask  the  other  to  sow  or  reap  for  him. 

Then  his  companion  might  say,  with  perfect  justice,  fC  I 
will  do  this  additional  work  for  you  ; but  if  I do  it,  you  must 
promise  to  do  as  much  for  me  at  another  time.  I will  count 
how  many  hours  I spend  on  your  ground,  and  you  shall  give 
me  a written  promise  to  work  for  the  same  number  of  hours 
on  mine,  whenever  I need  your  help,  and  you  are  able  to 
give  it,” 


172 


THE  VEINS  OF  WEALTH. 


Suppose  tlie  disabled  man’s  sickness  to  continue,  and  that 
under  various  circumstances,  for  several  years,  requiring  the 
help  of  the  other,  he  on  each  occasion  gave  a written  pledge 
to  work,  as  soon  as  he  was  able,  at  his  companion’s  orders, 
for  the  same  number  of  hours  which  the  other  had  given  up 
to  him.  What  will  the  positions  of  the  two  men  be  when  the 
invalid  is  able  to  resume  work  ? 

Considered  as  a “Polis,”  or  state,  they  will  be  poorer  than 
they  would  have  been  otherwise : poorer  by  the  withdrawal 
of  what  the  sick  man’s  labour  would  have  produced  in  the 
interval.  His  friend  may  perhaps  have  toiled  with  an  energy 
quickened  by  the  enlarged  need,  but  in  the  end  his  own  land 
and  property  must  have  suffered  by  the  withdrawal  of  so 
much  of  his  time  and  thought  from  them  ; and  the  united 
property  of  the  two  men  will  be  certainly  less  than  it  would 
have  been  if  both  had  remained  in  health  and  activity. 

But  the  relations  in  which  they  stand  to  each  other  are 
also  widely  altered.  The  sick  man  has  not  only  pledged  his 
labour  for  some  years,  but  will  probably  have  exhausted  his 
own  share  of  the  accumulated  stores,  and  will  be  in  conse- 
quence for  some  time  dependent  on  the  other  for  food,  which 
he  can  only  “pay”  or  reward  him  for  by  yet  more  deeply 
pledging  his  owrn  labour. 

Supposing  the  written  promises  to  be  held  entirely  valid 
(among  civilized  nations  their  validity  is  secured  by  legal 
measures*),  the  person  who  had  hitherto  worked  for  both 

* The  disputes  which  exist  respecting  the  real  nature  of  money  arise 
more  from  the  disputants  examining  its  functions  on  different  sides, 
than  from  any  real  dissent  in  their  opinions,  hll  money,  properly  so 
called,  is  an  acknowledgment  of  debt ; but  as  such,  it  may  either  be 
considered  to  represent  the  labour  and  property  of  the  creditor,  or  the 
idleness  and  penury  of  the  debtor.  The  intricacy  of  the  question  has 
been  much  increased  by  the  (hitherto  necessary)  use  of  marketable 
commodities,  such  as  gold,  silver,  salt,  shells,  &c. , to  give  intrinsic 
value  or  security  to  currency,  but  the  final  and  best  definition  of  money 
is  that  it  is  a documentary  promise  ratified  and  guaranteed  by  the  na- 
tion to  give  or  find  a certain  quantity  of  labour  on  demand.  A man’s 
labour  for  a day  is  a better  standard  of  value  than  a measure  of  any 
produce,  because  no  produce  ever  maintains  a consistent  rate  of  pro* 
ductibility. 


THE  VEINS  OF  WEALTH. 


173 


might  fiow,  if  lie  chose,  rest  altogether,  and  pass  his  time  in 
idleness,  not  only  forcing  his  companion  to  redeem  all  the 
engagements  he  had  already  entered  into,  but  exacting  from 
him  pledges  for  further  labour,  to  an  arbitrary  amount,  for 
what  food  he  had  to  advance  to  him. 

There  might  not,  from  first  to  last,  be  the  least  illegality 
(in  the  ordinary  sense  of  the  word)  in  the  arrangement ; but 
if  a stranger  arrived  on  the  coast  at  this  advanced  epoch  of 
their  political  economy,  he  would  find  one  man  commercially 
liioh  ; the  other  commercially  Poor.  He  would  see,  perhaps 
with  no  small  surprise,  one  passing  his  days  in  idleness  ; the 
other  labouring  for  both,  and  living  sparely,  in  the  hope  of 
recovering  his  independence,  at  some  distant  period. 

This  is,  of  course,  an  example  of  one  only  out  of  many  ways 
in  which  inequality  of  possession  may  be  established  between 
different  persons,  giving  rise  to  the  mercantile  forms  oi 
Riches  and  Poverty.  In  the  instance  before  us,  one  of  the 
men  might  from  the  first  have  deliberately  chosen  to  be  idle, 
and  to  put  his  life  in  pawn  for  present  ease ; or  he  might 
have  mismanaged  his  land,  and  been  compelled  to  have  re- 
course to  his  neighbour  for  food  and  help,  pledging  his 
future  labour  for  it.  But  what  I want  the  reader  to  note 
especially  is  the  fact,  common  to  a large  number  of  typical 
cases  of  this  kind,  that  the  establishment  of  the  mercantile 
wealth  which  consists  in  a claim  upon  labour,  signifies  a 
political  diminution  of  the  real  wealth  which  consists  in  sub- 
stantial possessions. 

Take  another  example,  more  consistent  with  the  ordinary 
course  of  affairs  of  trade.  Suppose  that  three  men,  instead  of 
two,  formed  the  little  isolated  republic,  and  found  themselves 
obliged  to  separate  in  order  to  farm  different  pieces  of  land 
at  some  distance  from  each  other  along  the  coast ; each  estate 
furnishing  a distinct  kind  of  produce,  and  each  more  or  less 
in  need  of  the  material  raised  on  the  other.  Suppose  that 
the  third  man,  in  order  to  save  the  time  of  all  three,  under- 
takes simply  to  superintend  the  transference  of  commodities 
from  one  farm  to  the  other ; on  condition  of  receiving  some 
Sufficiently  remunerative  share  of  every  parcel  of  goods  com 


m 


THE  VEINS  OF  WEALTH. 


veyed,  or  of  some  otlier  parcel  received  in  exchange  for 
it. 

If  this  carrier  or  messenger  always  brings  to  each  estate, 
from  the  other,  what  is  chiefly  wanted,  at  the  right  time,  the 
operations  of  the  two  farmers  will  go  on  prosperously,  and 
the  largest  possible  result  in  produce,  or  wealth,  will  be  at- 
tained by  the  little  community.  But  suppose  no  intercourse 
between  the  land  owners  is  possible,  except  through  the 
travelling  agent ; and  that,  after  a time,  this  agent,  watching 
the  course  of  each  man’s  agriculture,  keeps  back  the  articles 
with  which  he  has  been  entrusted,  until  there  comes  a period 
of  extreme  necessity  for  them,  on  one  side  or  other,  and  then 
exacts  in  exchange  for  them  all  that  the  distressed  farmer  can 
spare  of  other  kinds  of  produce  ; it  is  easy  to  see  that  by  in- 
geniously watching  his  opportunities,  he  might  possess  him- 
self regularly  of  the  greater  part  of  the  superfluous  produce 
of  the  two  estates,  and  at  last,  in  some  year  of  severest  trial  or 
scarcity,  purchase  both  for  himself,  and  maintain  the  former 
proprietors  thenceforward  as  his  labourers  or  his  servants. 

This  would  be  a case  of  commercial  wealth  acquired  on  the 
exactest  principles  of  modern  political  economy.  But  more 
distinctly  even  than  in  the  former  instance,  it  is  manifest  in 
this  that  the  wealth  of  the  State,  or  of  the  three  men  con- 
sidered as  a society,  is  collectively  less  than  it  would  have 
been  had  the  merchant  been  content  with  j lister  profit.  The 
operations  of  the  two  agriculturists  have  been  cramped  to  the 
utmost ; and  the  continual  limitations  of  the  supply  of  things 
they  wanted  at  critical  times,  together  with  the  failure  of 
courage  consequent  on  the  prolongation  of  a struggle  for 
mere  existence,  without  any  sense  of  permanent  gain,  must 
have  seriously  diminished  the  effective  results  of  their  labour; 
and  the  stores  finally  accumulated  in  the  merchant’s  hands 
will  not  in  anywise  be  of  equivalent  value  to  those  which,  had 
his  dealings  been  honest,  would  have  filled  at  once  the  gran- 
aries of  the  farmers  and  his  own. 

The  whole  question,  therefore,  respecting  not  only  the  acb 
vantage,  but  even  the.  quantity,  of  national  wealth,  resolves 
itself  finally  into  one  of  abstract  justice.  It  is  impossible  to 


THE  VEINS  OF  WEALTH. 


175 


conclude,  of  any  given  mass  of  acquired  wealth,  merely  by 
the  fact  of  its  existence,  whether  it  signifies  good  or  evil  to 
the  nation  in  the  midst  of  which  it  exists.  Its  real  value  de- 
pends on  the  moral  sign  attached  to  it,  just  as  sternly  as  that 
of  a mathematical  quantity  depends  on  the  algebraical  sign 
attached  to  it.  Any  given  accumulation  of  commercial  wealth 
may  be  indicative,  on  the  one  hand,  of  faithful  industries, 
progressive  energies,  and  productive  ingenuities  ; or,  on  the 
other,  it  may  be  indicative  of  mortal  luxury,  merciless  tyranny, 
ruinous  chicane.  Some  treasures  are  heavy  with  human  tears, 
as  an  ill-stored  harvest  with  untimely  rain  ; and  some  gold  is 
brighter  in  sunshine  than  it  is  in  substance. 

And  these  are  not,  observe,  merely  moral  or  pathetic  attri- 
butes of  riches,  which  the  seeker  of  riches  may,  if  he  chooses, 
despise  ; they  are  literally  and  sternly,  material  attributes  of 
riches,  depreciating  or  exalting,  incalculably,  the  monetary 
signification  of  the  sum  in  question.  One  mass  of  money  is 
the  outcome  of  action  which  has  created, — another,  of  action 
which  has  annihilated, — ten  times  as  much  in  the  gathering 
of  it ; such  and  such  strong  hands  have  been  paralyzed,  as  if 
they  had  been  numbed  by  nightshade  : so  many  strong  men’s 
courage  broken,  so  many  productive  operations  hindered  ; 
this  and  the  other  false  direction  given  to  labour,  and  lying 
image  of  prosperity  set  up,  on  Dura  plains  dug  into  seven- 
times-lieated  furnaces.  That  which  seems  to  be  wealth  may 
in  verity  be  only  the  gilded  index  of  far-reaching  ruin  ; a 
wrecker’s  handful  of  coin  gleaned  from  the  bead]  to  which  he 
has  beguiled  an  argosy  ; a camp-follower’s  bundle  of  rags  un- 
wrapped from  the  breasts  of  goodly  soldiers  dead  ; the  pur- 
chase-pieces of  potter’s  fields,  wherein  shall  be  buried  to- 
gether the  citizen  and  the  stranger. 

And  therefore,  the  idea  that  directions  can  be  given  for  the 
gaining  of  wealth,  irrespectively  of  the  consideration  of  its 
moral  sources,  or  that  any  general  and  technical  law  of  pur- 
chase and  gain  can  be  set  down  for  national  practice,  is  per- 
haps the  most  insolently  futile  of  all  that  ever  beguiled  men 
through  their  vices.  So  far  as  I know,  there  is  not  in  history 
record  of  anything  so  disgraceful  to  the  human  intellect  as  the 


176 


THE  VEINS  OF  WEALTH 


modem  idea  that  the  commercial  text,  “ Buy  in  the  cheapest 
market  and  sell  in  the  dearest,”  represents,  or  under  any  cir- 
cumstances could  represent,  an  available  principle  of  nation- 
al economy.  Buy  in  the  cheapest  market  ? — yes  ; but  what 
made  your  market  cheap  ? Charcoal  may  be  cheap  among 
your  roof  timbers  after  a fire,  and  bricks  may  be  cheap  in\ 
your  streets  after  an  earthquake  ; but  fire  and  earthquake 
may  not  therefore  be  national  benefits.  Sell  in  the  dearest  ? 
— yes,  truly  ; but  what  made  your  market  dear?  You  sold 
your  bread  well  to-day  ; was  it  to  a dying  man  who  gave  his 
last  coin  for  it,  and  will  never  need  bread  more,  or  to  a rich 
man  who  to-morrow  wall  buy  your  farm  over  your  head ; or 
to  a soldier  on  his  way  to  pillage  the  bank  in  which  you  have 
put  your  fortune  ? 

None  of  these  things  you  can  know.  One  thing  only  you 
can  know,  namely,  whether  this  dealing  of  yours  is  a just  and 
faithful  one,  which  is  all  you  need  concern  yourself  about 
respecting  it ; sure  thus  to  have  done  your  own  part  in  bring- 
ing about  ultimately  in  the  world  a state  of  things  which  wall 
not  issue  in  pillage  or  in  death.  And  thus  every  question 
concerning  these  things  merges  itself  ultimately  in  the  great 
question  of  justice,  which,  the  ground  being  thus  far  cleared 
for  it,  I will  enter  upon  in  the  next  paper,  leaving  only,  in 
this,  three  final  points  for  the  reader’s  consideration. 

It  has  been  shown  that  the  chief  value  and  virtue  of  money 
consists  in  its  having  power  over  human  beings  ; that,  without 
this  power,  large  material  possessions  are  useless,  and  to  any 
person  possessing  such  power,  comparatively  unnecessary. 
But  power  over  human  beings  is  attainable  by  other  means 
than  by  money.  As  I said  a few  pages  back,  the  money 
power  is  always  imperfect  and  doubtful ; there  are  many 
things  vriiich  cannot  be  retained  by  it.  Many  joys  may  be 
given  to  men  w7hich  cannot  be  bought  for  gold,  and  many 
fidelities  found  in  them  which  cannot  be  rewarded  with  it. 

Trite  enough, — the  reader  thinks.  Yes  : but  it  is  not  so 
trite, — I wish  it  were. — that  in  this  moral  power,  quite  in- 
scrutable and  immeasurable  though  it  be,  there  is  a monetary 
value  just  as  real  as  that  represented  by  more  ponderous  cur- 


THE  VEINS  OF  WEALTH. 


177 


rencies.  A man’s  hand  may  be  full  of  invisible  gold,  and 
the  wave  of  it,  or  the  grasp,  shall  do  more  than  another’s 
with  a shower  of  bullion.  This  invisible  gold,  also,  does  not 
necessarily  diminish  in  spending.  Political  economists  will 
do  well  some  day  to  take  heed  of  it,  though  they  cannot  take 
measure. 

But  farther.  Since  the  essence  of  wealth  consists  in  its 
authority  over  men,  if  the  apparent  or  nominal  wealth  fail  in 
tins  power,  it  fails  in  essence  ; in  fact,  ceases  to  be  wealth  at 
all.  It  does  not  appear  lately  in  England,  that  our  authority 
over  men  is  absolute.  The  servants  show  some  disposition 
to  rush  riotously  upstairs,  under  an  impression  that  their 
wages  are  not  regularly  paid.  We  should  augur  ill  of  any 
gentleman’s  property  to  whom  this  happened  every  other  day 
in  his  drawing-room. 

So  also,  the  power  of  our  wealth  seems  limited  as  respects 
the  comfort  of  the  servants,  no  less  than  their  quietude.  The 
persons  in  the  kitchen  appear  to  be  ill-dressed,  squalid,  half- 
starved.  One  cannot  help  imagining  that  the  riches  of  the 
establishment  must  be  of  a very  theoretical  and  documentary 
character. 

Einally.  Since  the  essence  of  wealth  consists  in  power  over 
men,  will  it  not  follow  that  the  nobler  and  the  more  in  num- 
ber the  persons  are  over  whom  it  has  power,  the  greater  the 
wealth?  Perhaps  it  may  even  appear  after  some  consider- 
ation, that  the  persons  themselves  are  the  wealth— -that  these 
pieces  of  gold  with  which  we  are  in  the  habit  of  guiding 
them,  are,  in  fact,  nothing  more  than  a kind  of  Byzantine 
harness  or  trappings,  very  glittering  and  beautiful  in  barbaric 
sight,  wherewith  we  bridle  the  creatures  ; but  that  if  these 
same  living  creatures  could  be  guided  without  the  fretting 
and  jingling  of  the  Byzants  in  their  mouths  and  ears,  they 
might  themselves  be  more  valuable  than  their  bridles.  In 
fact,  it  may  be  discovered  that  the  true  veins  of  wealth  are 
purple — and  not  in  Bock,  but  in  Elesh — perhaps  even  that 
the  final  outcome  and  consummation  of  all  wealth  is  in  the 
producing  as  many  as  possible  full-breathed,  bright-eyed,  and 
happy-liearted  human  creatures.  Our  modem  wealth,  I 


17a 


TEE  VEINS  OF  WEALTH. 


think,  has  rather  a tendency  the  other  way  ; — most  political 
economists  appearing  to  consider  multitudes  of  human  creat- 
ures not  conducive  to  wealth,  or  at  best  conducive  to  it  only 
by  remaining  in  a dim-eyed  and  narrow-chested  state  of 
being. 

Nevertheless,  it  is  open,  I repeat,  to  serious  question, 
which  I leave  to  the  reader’s  pondering,  whether,  among 
national  manufactures,  that  of  Souls  of  a good  quality  may 
not  at  last  turn  out  a quite  leadingly  lucrative  one  ? Nay, 
in  some  far-away  and  yet  undreamt-of  hour,  I can  even  imag- 
ine that  England  may  cast  all  thoughts  of  possessive  wealth 
back  to  the  barbaric  nations  among  whom  they  first  arose  ; 
and  that,  while  the  sands  of  the  Indus  and  adamant  of  Gol- 
eonda  may  yet  stiffen  the  housings  of  the  charger,  and  flash 
from  the  turban  of  the  slave,  she,  as  a Christian  mother, 
may  at  last  attain  to  the  virtues  and  the  treasures  of  a Hea* 
then  on  ft.  and  be  able  to  lead  forth  her  Sons,  saying*— 


f<  These  are  my  Jewels,” 


ESSAY  m 


QUI  JUDICATIS  TERRAM. 

Some  centuries  before  the  Christian  era,  a Jew  merchant 
largely  engaged  in  business  on  the  Gold  Coast,  and  reported 
to  have  made  one  of  the  largest  fortunes  of  his  time  (held 
also  in  repute  for  much  practical  sagacity),  left  among  his 
ledgers  some  general  maxims  concerning  wealth,  which  have 
been  preserved,  strangely  enough,  even  to  our  own  da3^s. 
They  were  held  in  considerable  respect  by  the  most  active 
traders  of  the  middle  ages,  especially  by  the  Venetians,  who 
even  went  so  far  in  their  admiration  as  to  place  a statue  of 
the  old  Jew  on  the  angle  of  one  of  their  principal  public 
buildings.  Of  late  years  these  writings  have  fallen  into  dis- 
repute, being  opposed  in  every  particular  to  the  spirit  of 
modern  commerce.  Nevertheless  I shall  reproduce  a passage 
or  two  from  them  here,  partly  because  they  may  interest  the 
reader  by  their  novelty  ; and  chiefly  because  they  will  show  him 
that  it  is  possible  for  a very  practical  and  acquisitive  tradesman 
to  hold,  through  a not  unsuccessful  career,  that  principle  of 
distinction  between  wTell-gotten  and  ill  gotten  wealth,  which, 
partially  insisted  on  in  my  last  paper,  it  must  be  our  work 
more  completely  to  examine  in  this. 

He  says,  for  instance,  in  one  place  : “ The  getting  of  treas- 
ure by  a lying  tongue  is  a vanity  tossed  to  and  fro  of  them 
that  seek  death  : ” adding  in  another,  with  the  same  mean- 
ing (he  has  a curious  way  of  doubling  his  sayings) : “Treas- 
ures of  wickedness  profit  nothing ; but  justice  delivers  from 
death.”  Both  these  passages  are  notable  for  their  assertion 
of  death  as  the  only  real  issue  and  sum  of  attainment  by 
any  unjust  scheme  of  wealth.  If  we  read,  instead  of  “ lying 
tongue,”  “tying  label,  title,  pretence,  or  advertisement,”  we 
shall  more  clearly  perceive  the  bearing  of  the  words  on  mod- 


180 


QUI  JU D1C AT IS  TERRAM. 


era  business.  The  seeking  of  death  is  a grand  expression  of 
the  true  course  of  men’s  toil  in  such  business.  We  usually 
speak  as  if  death  pursued  us,  and  we  fled  from  him  ; but  that 
is  only  so  in  rare  instances.  Ordinarily,  he  masks  himself — 
makes  himself  beautiful — all-glorious^  not  like  the  King’s 
daughter,  all-glorious  within,  but  outwardly  : his  clothing  of 
wrought  gold.  We  pursue  him  frantically  all  our  days,  he 
flying  or  hiding  from  us.  Our  crowning  success  at  three- 
score and  ten  is  utterly  and  perfectly  to  seize,  and  hold  him 
in  his  eternal  integrity — robes,  ashes,  and  sting. 

Again:  the  merchant  says,  “He  that  oppresseth  the  poor 
to  increase  his  riches,  shall  surely  come  to  want.”  And  again, 
more  strongly  : “ Rob  not  the  poor  because  he  is  poor  ; neither 
oppress  the  afflicted  in  the  place  of  business.  For  God  shall 
spoil  the  soul  of  those  that  spoiled  them.” 

This  “ robbing  the  poor  because  he  is  poor,”  is  especially 
the  mercantile  form  of  theft,  consisting  in  taking  advantage 
of  a man’s  necessities  in  order  to  obtain  his  labour  or  proper- 
ty at  a reduced  price.  The  ordinary  highwayman’s  opposite 
form  of  robbery — of  the  rich,  because  he  is  rich — does  not 
appear  to  occur  so  often  to  the  old  merchant’s  mind  ; prob- 
ably because,  being  less  profitable  and  more  dangerous  than 
the  robbery  of  the  poor,  it  is  rarely  practised  by  persons  of 
discretion. 

But  the  two  most  remarkable  passages  in  their  deep  gen- 
eral significance  are  the  following  - 

“ The  rich  and  the  poor  have  met.  God  is  their  maker.” 
“The  rich  and  the  poor  have  met.  God  is  their  light.” 
They  “ have  met : ” more  literally,  have  stood  in  each  other’s 
way  ( obmaverunt ).  That  is  to  say,  as  long  as  the  world  lasts, 
the  action  and  counteraction  of  wealth  and  poverty,  the  meet- 
ing, face  to  face,  of  rich  and  poor,  is  just  as  appointed  and 
necessary  a law  of  that  world  as  the  flow  of  stream  to  sea,  or 
the  interchange  of  power  among  the  electric  clouds  : — “ God 
is  their  maker.”  But,  also,  this  action  may  be  either  gentle 
and  just,  or  convulsive  and  destructive  : it  may  be  by  rage  of 
devouring  flood,  or  by  lapse  of  serviceable  wave  ; — in  black 
ness  of  thunderstroke,  or  continual  force  of  vital  fire,  soft,  and 


QU1  JUDICATIS  TERR  AM. 


181 


uhapeable  into  love-syllables  from  far  away.  And  which  ol 
these  it  shall  be  depends  on  both  rich  and  j>oor  knowing  that 
God  is  their  light ; that  in  the  mystery  of  human  life,  there  is 
no  other  light  than  this  by  which  they  can  see  each  other’s 
faces,  and  live  ; — light,  which  is  called  in  another  of  the  books 
among  which  the  merchant’s  maxims  have  been  preserved,  the 
“ sun  of  justice,”  * of  which  it  is  promised  that  it  shall  risa  at 
last  with  “healing”  (health-giving  or  helping,  making  whole 
or  setting  at  one)  in  its  wings.  For  truly  this  healing  is  oidy 
possible  by  means  of  justice  ; no  love,  no  faith,  no  hope  will 
do  it ; men  will  be  unwisely  fond — vainly  faithful,  unless  pri- 
marily they  are  just ; and  the  mistake  of  the  best  men  through 
generation  after  generation,  has  been  that  great  one  of  think 
ing  to  help  the  poor  by  almsgiving,  and  by  preaching  of  pa- 
tience or  of  hope,  and  by  every  other  means,  emollient  or  con- 
solatory, except  the  one  thing  which  God  orders  for  them, 
justice.  But  this  justice,  with  its  accompanying  holiness  or 
helpfulness,  being  even  by  the  best  men  denied  in  its  trial  time, 
is  by  the  mass  of  men  hated  wherever  it  appears  : so  that, 
when  the  choice  was  one  day  fairly  put  to  them,  they  denied 
the  Helpful  One  and  the  Just  ; f and  desired  a murderer, 
sedition-raiser,  and  robber,  to  be  granted  to  them  ; — the  mur- 
derer instead  of  the  Lord  of  Life,  the  sedition-raiser  instead 

* More  accurately,  Sun  of  Justness ; but,  instead  of  the  liarsh  word 
“Justness,”  the  old  English  “Righteousness”  being  commonly  em- 
ployed, has,  by  getting  confused  with  “godliness,”  or  attracting  about 
it  various  vague  and  broken  meanings,  prevented  most  persons  from  re- 
ceiving the  force  of  the  passages  in  which  it  occurs.  The  word  “ right- 
eousness ” properly  refers  to  the  justice  of  rule,  or  right,  as  distinguished 
from  “equity,”  which  refers  to  the  justice  of  balance.  More  broadly, 
Righteousness  is  King’s  justice  ; and  Equity,  Judge’s  justice;  the  King 
guiding  or  ruling  all,  the  Judge  dividing  or  discerning  between  oppo 
sites  (therefore,  the  double  question,  “Man,  who  mad®  me  a ruler- - 
Succktttis  — or  a divider — nepiorr^s — over  you  ? ”)  Thus,  with  respect  to 
the  Justice  of  Choice  (selection,  the  feebler  and  passive  justice),  we 
have  from  lego, — lex,  legal,  loi,  and  loyal  ; and  with  respect  to  the  Jus- 
tice of  Rule  (direction,  the  stronger  and  active  justice),  we  have  from 
rego, — rex,  regal,  roi,  and  royal. 

f In  another  place  written  with  the  same  meaning,  “ Just,  and  hav 
ing  salvation.” 


QUI  JUDICATIS  TERR  AM, 


183 

of  the  Prince  of  Peace,  and  the  robber  instead  of  the  Just 
Judge  of  all  the  world. 

I have  just  spoken  of  the  Sowing  of  streams  to  the  sea  as  a 
partial  image  of  the  action  of  wealth.  In  one  respect  it  is  not 
a partial,  but  a perfect  image.  The  popular  economist  thinks 
himself  wise  in  having  discovered  that  wealth,  or  the  forms  of 
property  in  general,  must  go  where  they  are  required  ; that 
where  demand  is,  supply  must  follow.  He  farther  declares 
that  this  course  of  demand  and  supply  cannot  be  forbidden 
by  human  lawrs.  Precisely  in  the  same  sense,  and  w-ith  *the 
same  certainty,  the  waters  of  the  world  go  wdiere  they  are  re- 
quired. Where  the  land  falls,  the  water  flows.  The  course 
neither  of  clouds  nor  rivers  can  be  forbidden  by  human  will. 
But  the  disposition  and  administration  of  them  can  be  altered 
by  human  forethought.  Whether  the  stream  shall  be  a curse 
or  a blessing,  depends  upon  man’s  labour,  and  administrating 
intelligence.  For  centuries  after  centuries,  great  districts  of 
the  world,  rich  in  soil,  and  favoured  in  climate,  have  lain  des- 
ert under  the  rage  of  their  own  rivers  ; nor  only  desert,  but 
plague-struck.  The  stream  which,  rightly  directed,  would 
have  flowed  in  soft  irrigation  from  field  to  field — would  have 
purified  the  air,  given  food  to  man  and  beast,  and  carried 
their  burdens  for  them  on  its  bosom — now  overwhelms  the 
plain,  and  poisons  the  wind  ; its  breath  pestilence,  and  its 
work  famine.  In  like  manner  this  wealth  “goes  wdiere  it 
is  required.”  No  human  laws  can  withstand  its  flow/.  They 
can  only  guide  it : but  this,  the  leading  trench  and  limiting 
mound  can  do  so  thoroughly,  that  it  shall  become  water  of 
life — the  riches  of  the  hand  of  wisdom  ; * or,  on  the  contrary, 
by  leaving  it  to  its  own  lawless  flow’,  they  may  make  it,  wdiatifc 
has  been  too  often,  the  last  and  deadliest  of  national  plagues  : 
water  of  Marah — the  water  which  feeds  the  roots  of  all  evil. 

The  necessity  of  these  laws  of  distribution  or  restraint  is 
curiously  overlooked  in  the  ordinary  political  economist’s 
definition  of  his  own  “science.”  He  calls  it,  shortly,  the 
“ science  of  getting  rich.”  But  there  are  many  sciences,  as 
well  as  many  arts,  of  getting  rich.  Poisoning  people  of  large 

* “ Length,  of  days  in  her  right  hand  ; in  her  left,  riches  and  honour,'' 


QUI  AUDIO  AT  18  TERR  AM. 


183 


estates,  was  one  employed  largely  in  the  middle  ages  ; adub 
teration  of  food  of  people  of  small  estates,  is  one  employed 
largely  now.  The  ancient  and  honourable  Highland  method 
of  blackmail ; the  more  modern  and  less  honourable  system 
of  obtaining  goods  on  credit,  and  the  other  variously  im- 
proved methods  of  appropriation — which,  in  major  and  minor 
scales  of  industry,  down  to  the  most  artistic  pocket-picking, 
we  owe  to  recent  genius, — all  come  under  the  general  headoi 
sciences,  or  arts,  of  getting  rich. 

So  that  it  is  clear  the  popular  economist,  in  calling  his 
science  the  science  par  excellence  of  getting  rich,  must  attach 
some  peculiar  ideas  of  limitation  to  its  character.  I hope  I 
do  not  misrepresent  him,  by  assuming  that  he  means  his 
science  to  be  the  science  of  “getting  rich  by  legal  or  just 
means.”  In  this  definition,  is  the  word  “just,”  or  “legal,” 
finally  to  stand  ? For  it  is  possible  among  certain  nations,  or 
under  certain  rulers,  or  by  help  of  certain  advocates,  that  pro- 
ceedings may  be  legal  which  are  by  no  means  just.  If,  there 
fore,  we  leave  at  last  only  the  word  “ just  ” in  that  place  of 
our  definition,  the  insertion  of  this  solitary  and  small  word 
will  make  a notable  difference  in  the  grammar  of  our  science. 
For  then  it  will  follow  that,  in  order  to  grow  rich  scientifi- 
cally, we  must  grow  rich  justly  ; and,  therefore,  know  w’liat  is 
just ; so  that  our  economy  will  no  longer  depend  merely  on 
prudence,  but  on  jurisprudence — and  that  of  divine,  not  hu- 
man law.  Which  prudence  is  indeed  of  no  mean  order,  hold- 
ing itself,  as  it  were,  high  in  the  air  of  heaven,  and  gazing  for 
ever  on  the  light  of  the  sun  of  justice  ; hence  the  souls  which 
have  excelled  in  it  are  represented  by  Dante  as  stars  forming 
in  heaven  for  ever  the  figure  of  the  eye  of  an  eagle  : they  hav- 
ing been  in  life  the  discerners  of  light  from  darkness  ; or  to 
the  whole  human  race,  as  the  light  of  the  body,  which  is  the 
eye  ; while  those  souls  which  form  the  wings  of  the  bird 
(giving  power  and  dominion  to  justice,  “ healing  in  its  wings  ”) 
trace  also  in  light  the  inscription  in  heaven  : “ diligite  jtjsti- 
tiam  qui  judicatis  terram.”  “Ye  who  judge  the  earth,  give  * 
(not,  observe,  merely  love,  but)  “ diligent  love  to  justice  the 
love  which  seeks  diligently,  that  is  to  say,  choosingly,  and  by 


184 


QUI  JUDICATIS  TERR  AM. 


preference  to  all  things  else.  Which  judging  or  doing  judg 
ment  in  the  earth  is,  according  to  their  capacity  and  position, 
required  not  of  judges  only,  nor  of  rulers  only,  but  of  all 
men  : '*  a trutli  sorrowfully  lost  sight  of  even  by  those  who  are 
ready  enough  to  apply  to  themselves  passages  in  which  Christian 
men  are  spoken  of  as  called  to  be  “ saints  ” (i.e.  to  helpful  or 
healing  functions)  ; and  “ chosen  to  be  kings  ” (i.e.  to  know- 
ing or  directing  functions)  ; the  true  meaning  of  these  titles 
having  been  long  lost  through  the  pretences  of  unhelpful  and 
unable  persons  to  saintly  and  kingly  character  ; also  through 
the  once  popular  idea  that  both  the  sanctity  and  royalty  are 
to  consist  in  wearing  long  robes  and  high  crowns,  instead  of 
in  mercy  and  judgment  ; whereas  all  true  sanctity  is  saving 
power,  as  all  true  royalty  is  ruling  power  ; and  injustice  is 
part  and  parcel  of  the  denial  of  such  power,  which  “ makes 
men  as  the  creeping  things^  as  the  fishes  of  the  sea,  that  have 
no  ruler  over  them.”  f 

Absolute  justice  is  indeed  no  more  attainable  than  absolute 
truth ; but  the  righteous  man  is  distinguished  from  the  un- 
righteous by  his  desire  and  hope  of  justice,  as  the  true  man 
from  the  false  by  his  desire  and  hope  of  truth.  And  though 
absolute  justice  be  unattainable,  as  much  justice  as  we  need 
for  all  practical  use  is  attainable  by  all  those  who  make  it 
their  aim. 

We  have  to  examine,  then,  in  the  subject  before  us,  what 
are  the  laws  of  justice  respecting  payment  of  labour — no 
small  part,  these,  of  the  foundations  of  all  jurisprudence. 

* I hear  that  several  of  our  lawyers  have  been  greatly  amused  by  the 
statement  in  the  first  of  these  papers  that  a lawyer's  function  was  to  do 
justice.  I do  not  intend  it  for  a jest  ; nevertheless  it  will  be  seen  that 
m the  above  passage  neither  the  determination  nor  doing  of  justice  are 
contemplated  as  functions  wholly  peculiar  to  the  lawyer.  Possibly,  the 
more  our  standing  armies,  whether  of  soldiers,  pastors,  or  legislators 
(the  generic  term  “ pastor  ” including  all  teachers,  and  the  generic  term 
“ lawyer  ” including  makers  as  well  as  interpreters  of  law),  can  be  super- 
seded by  the  force  of  national  heroism,  wisdom,  and  honesty,  tli©  bettei 
it  may  be  for  the  nation. 

f It  being  the  privilege  of  the  fishes,  as  it  is  of  rats  and  wolves, 
live  by  the  laws  of  demand  and  supply  ; but  the  distinction  of  humai? 
Ity,  to  live  by  those  of  right. 


QUI  JU DIC AT IS  TERR  AM, 


185 


I reduced,  in  my  last  paper,  the  idea  of  money  payment  to 
its  simplest  or  radical  terms.  In  those  terms  its  nature,  and 
the  conditions  of  justice  respecting  it,  can  be  best  ascer- 
tained. 

Money  payment,  as  there  stated,  consists  radically  in  a 
promise  to  some  person  working  for  us,  that  for  the  time  and 
labour  he  spends  in  our  service  to-day  we  will  give  or  procure 
equivalant  time  and  labour  in  his  service  at  any  future  time 
when  he  may  demand  it.* 

If  we  promise  to  give  him  less  labour  than  he  has  given  us, 
we  under-pay  him.  If  we  promise  to  give  him  more  labour 
than  he  has  given  us,  we  over-pay  him.  In  practice,  accord- 
ing to  the  laws  of  demand  and  supply,  when  two  men  are 
ready  to  do  the  work,  and  only  one  man  wants  to  have  it 
done,  the  two  men  underbid  each  other  for  it ; and  the  one 
who  gets  it  to  do,  is  under-paid.  But  when  two  men  want 
the  work  done,  and  there  is  only  one  man  ready  to  do  it,  the 
two  men  who  want  it  done  over-bid  each  other,  and  the  work- 
man is  over-paid. 

I will  examine  these  two  points  of  injustice  in  succession  ; 
but  first  I wish  the  reader  to  clearly  understand  the  central 
principle,  lying  between  the  two,  of  right  or  just  payment. 

When  we  ask  a service  of  any  man,  he  may  either  give  it 
us  freely,  or  demand  payment  for  it.  Respecting  free  gift  of 
service,  there  is  no  question  at  present,  that  being  a matter 
of  affection — not  of  traffic.  But  if  he  demand  payment  for  it, 
and  we  wish  to  treat  him  with  absolute  equity,  it  is  evident 
that  this  equity  can  only  consist  in  giving  time  for  time, 

* It  might  appear  at  first  that  the  market  price  of  labour  expressed 
such  an  exchange  : but  this  is  a fallacy,  for  the  market  price  is  the  mo- 
mentary price  of  the  kind  of  labour  required,  but  the  just  price  is  its 
equivalent  of  the  productive  labour  of  mankind.  This  difference  will 
be  analyzed  in  its  place.  It  must  be  noted  also  that  I speak  here  only 
of  the  exchangeable  value  of  labour,  not  of  that  of  commodities.  The 
exchangeable  value  of  a commodity  is  that  of  the  labour  required  to 
produce  it,  multiplied  into  the  force  of  the  demand  for  it.  If  the  value 
of  the  labour  = x and  the  force  of  the  demand  = y , the  exchangeable 
value  of  the  commodity  is  x y , in  which  if  either  x = 0,  or  y — 0,  xy 
-0. 


4 


185 


QUl  JUMCATIS  TERR  AM. 


strength  for  strength,  and  skill  for  skill.  If  a man  works  an 
hour  for  us,  and  we  only  promise  to  work  half-an-hour  for 
him  in  return,  we  obtain  an  unjust  advantage.  If,  on  the 
contrary,  we  promise  to  work  an  hour  and  a half  for  him  in 
return,  he  has  an  unjust  advantage.  The  justice  consists  in 
absolute  exchange  ; or,  if  there  be  any  respect  to  the  stations 
of  the  parties,  it  will  not  be  in  favour  of  the  employer  : there 
is  certainly  no  equitable  reason  in  a man’s  being  poor,  that  if 
he  give  me  a pound  of  bread  to-day,  I should  return  him  less 
than  a pound  of  bread  to-morrow  ; or  any  equitable  reason  in 
a man’s  being  uneducated,  that  if  he  uses  a certain  quantity 
of  skill  and  knowledge  in  my  service,  I should  use  a less  quan- 
tity of  skill  and  knowledge  in  his.  Perhaps,  ultimately,  it 
may  appear  desirable,  or,  to  say  the  least,  gracious,  that  I 
should  give  in  return  somewhat  more  than  I received.  But 
at  present,  we  are  concerned  on  the  law  of  justice  only,  which 
is  that  of  perfect  and  accurate  exchange  ;■ — one  circumstance 
only  interfering  with  the  simplicity  of  this  radical  idea  of 
just  payment— that  inasmuch  as  labour  (rightly  directed)  is 
fruitful  just  as  seed  is,  the  fruit  (or  “ interest,”  as  it  is  called) 
of  the  labour  first  given,  or  “ advanced,”  ought  to  be  taken 
into  account,  and  balanced  by  an  additional  quantity  of  la- 
bour in  the  subsequent  repayment.  Supposing  the  repayment 
to  take  place  at  the  end  of  a year,  or  of  any  other  given  time, 
this  calculation  could  be  approximately  made  ; but  as  money 
(that  is  to  say,  cash)  payment  involves  no  reference  to  time 
(it  being  optional  with  the  person  paid  to  spend  what  he  re- 
ceives at  once  or  after  any  number  of  years),  we  can  only  as- 
sume, generally,  that  some  slight  advantage  must  in  equity  be 
allowed  to  the  person  who  advances  the  labour,  so  that  the 
typical  form  of  bargain  will  be  : If  you  give  me  an  hour 
to-day,  I will  give  you  an  hour  and  five  minutes  on  demand. 
If  you  give  me  a pound  of  bread  to-day,  I will  give  you  seven- 
teen ounces  on  demand,  and  so  on.  All  that  it  is  necessary 
for  the  reader  to  note  is,  that  the  amount  returned  is  at  least 
in  equity  not  to  be  less  than  the  amount  given. 

The  abstract  idea,  then,  of  just  or  due  wages,  as  respects 
the  labourer,  is  that  they  will  consist  in  a sum  of  money  which 


Qlrl  JUDICATIS  TERR  AM. 


1ST 


will  at  any  time  procure  for  him  at  least  as  much  labour  as  ha 
has  given,  rather  more  than  less.  And  this  equity  or  justice 
of  payment  is,  observe,  wholly  independent  of  any  reference 
to  the  number  of  men  who  are  willing  to  do  the  work.  I 
want  a horseshoe  for  my  horse.  Twenty  smiths,  or  twenty 
thousand  smiths,  may  be  ready  to  forge  it ; their  number 
does  not  in  one  atom’s  weight  affect  the  question  of  the  equi- 
table payment  of  the  one  who  does  forge  it.  It  costs  him  a 
quarter  of  an  hour  of  his  life,  and  so  much  skill  and  strength 
of  arm  to  make  that  horseshoe  for  me.  Then  at  some  future 
time  I am  bound  in  equity  to  give  a quarter  of  an  hour,  and 
some  minutes  more,  of  my  life  (or  of  some  other  person’s  at 
my  disposal),  and  also  as  much  strength  of  arm  and  skill,  and 
a little  more,  in  making  or  doing  what  the  smith  may  have 
need  of. 

Sucli  being  the  abstract  theory  of  just  remunerative  pay- 
ment, its  application  is  practically  modified  by  the  fact  that 
the  order  for  labour,  given  in  payment,  is  general,  while  labour 
received  is  special.  The  current  coin  or  document  is  practically 
an  order  on  the  nation  for  so  much  work  of  any  kind  ; and  this 
universal  applicability  to  immediate  need  renders  it  so  much 
more  valuable  than  special  labour  can  be,  that  an  order  for  a 
less  quantity  of  this  general  toil  will  always  be  accepted  as  a 
just  equivalent  for  a greater  quantity  of  special  toil.  Any 
given  craftsman  will  always  be  willing  to  give  an  hour  of  his 
own  work  in  order  to  receive  command  over  half-an-hour,  or 
even  much  less,  of  national  work.  This  source  of  uncertainty, 
together  with  the  difficulty  of  determining  the  monetary  val- 
ue of  skill, * renders  the  ascertainment  (even  approximate)  of 

* Under  tlie  term  “ skill  ” I mean  to  include  the  united  force  of  ex- 
perience, intellect,  and  passion  in  their  operation  on  manual  labour:  and 
under  the  term  ' ‘ passion,”  to  include  the  entire  range  and  agency  of  the 
moral  feelings  ; from  the  simple  patience  and  gentleness  of  mind  which 
will  give  continuity  and  fineness  to  the  touch,  or  enable  one  person  to 
work  without  fatigue,  and  with  good  effect,  twice  as  long  as  another,  up 
to  the  qualities  of  character  which  render  science  possible— (the  retarda- 
tion of  science  by  envy  is  one  of  the  most  tremendous  losses  in  the 
economy  of  the  present  century) — and  to  the  incommunicable  emotion 


183 


QUI  JUDICATTS  TERR  AM. 


the  proper  wages  of  any  given  labour  in  terms  of  a currency 
matter  of  considerable  complexity.  But  they  do  not  affec\ 
the  principle  of  exchange.  The  worth  of  the  work  may  not 
be  easily  known  ; but  it  has  a worth,  just  as  fixed  and  real  as 
the  specific  gravity  of  a substance,  though  such  specific  gravity 
may  not  be  easily  ascertainable  when  the  substance  is  united 
with  many  others.  Nor  is  there  any  difficulty  or  chance  in 
determining  it  as  in  determining  the  ordinary  maxima  and 
minima  of  vulgar  political  economy.  There  are  few  bargains 
in  which  the  buyer  can  ascertain  with  anything  like  precision 
that  the  seller  would  have  taken  no  less  ; — or  the  seller  acquire 
more  than  a comfortable  faith  that  the  purchaser  would  havo 
given  no  more.  This  impossibility  of  precise  knowledge  pre- 
vents neither  from  striving  to  attain  the  desired  point  of 

and  imagination  which  are  the  first  and  mightiest  sources  or  all  value 
in  art. 

It  is  highly  singular  that  political  economists  should  not  yet  have 
perceived,  if  not  the  moral,  at  least  the  passionate  element,  to  be  an  in- 
extricable quantity  in  every  calculation.  I cannot  conceive,  for  instance, 
how  it  was  possible  that  Mr.  Mill  should  have  followed  the  true  clue  so 
far  as  to  write,— “ No  limit  can  beset  to  the  importance— even  in  a 
purely  productive  and  material  point  of  view — of  mere  thought,”  with- 
out seeing  that  it  was  logically  necessary  to  add  also,  “ and  of  mere  feel- 
ing.” And  this  the  more,  because  in  his  first  definition  of  labour  he 
includes  in  the  idea  of  it  “all  feelings  of  a disagreeable  kind  connected 
with  the  employment  of  one  s thoughts  in  a particular  occupation.  ’ 
True;  but  why  not  also,  “feelings  of  an  agreeable  kind  V ” It  can 
hardly  be  supposed  that  the  feelings  which  retard  labour  are  more 
essentially  a part  of  the  labour  than  those  which  accelerate  it  The 
first  are  paid  for  as  pain,  the  second  as  power.  The  workman  is  merely 
indemnified  for  the  first ; but  the  second  both  produce  a part  of  the 
exchangeable  value  of  the  work,  and  materially  increase  its  actual 
quantity. 

“Fritz  is  with  us.  He  is  worth  fifty  thousand  men.”  Truly,  a large 
addition  to  the  material  force  ; — consisting,  however,  be  it  observed,  not 
more  in  operations  carried  on  in  Fritz  s head,  than  in  operations  carried 
on  in  his  armies  heart.  “ No  limit  can  be  set  to  the  importance  of  mere 
thought.”  Perhaps  not!  Nay,  suppose  some  day  it  should  turn  out 
that  “mere’  thought  was  in  itself  a recommendable  object  of  produo> 
tion,  and  that  all  Material  production  was  only  a step  towards  this  mors 
precious  Immaterial  one  ? 


QU1  JU DIG  AT  IS  TERR  All 


189 


greatest  vexation  ancl  injury  to  the  other,  nor  from  accepting 
it  for  a scientific  principle  that  he  is  to  buy  for  the  least  and 
sell  for  the  most  possible,  though  what  the  real  least  or  most 
may  be  he  cannot  tell.  In  like  manner,  a just  person  lays  it 
down  for  a scientific  principle  that  he  is  to  pay  a just  price, 
and,  without  being  able  precisely  to  ascertain  the  limits  of 
such  a price,  will  nevertheless  strive  to  attain  the  closest  pos- 
sible approximation  to  them.  A practically  serviceable  ap- 
proximation he  can  obtain.  It  is  easier  to  determine  scientifi- 
cally what  a man  ought  to  have  for  his  work,  than  what  his 
necessities  will  compel  him  to  take  for  it.  His  necessities  can 
only  be  ascertained  by  empirical,  but  his  due  by  analytical 
investigation.  In  the  one  case,  you  try  your  answer  to  the 
sum  like  a puzzled  schoolboy — till  you  find  one  that  fits  ; in 
the  other,  yoi  bring  out  your  result  within  certain  limits,  by 
process  of  calculation. 

Supposing,  then,  the  just  wTages  of  any  quantity  of  given 
labour  to  have  been  ascertained,  let  us  examine  the  first  re- 
sults of  just  and  unjust  payment,  when  in  favour  of  the  pur- 
chaser or  employer ; i.  e.  when  two  men  are  ready  to  do  the 
work,  and  only  one  wants  to  have  it  done. 

The  unjust  purchaser  forces  the  two  to  bid  against  each 
other  till  he  has  reduced  their  demand  to  its  lowest  terms. 
Let  us  assume  that  the  lowest  bidder  offers  to  do  the  work  at 
half  its  just  price. 

The  purchaser  employs  him,  and  does  not  employ  the  other. 
The  first  or  apparent  result  is,  therefore,  that  one  of  the  two 
men  is  left  out  of  employ,  or  to  starvation,  just  as  definitely  as 
by  the  just  procedure  of  giving  fair  price  to  the  best  workman. 
The  various  writers  who  endeavoured  to  invalidate  the  posi- 
tions of  my  first  paper  never  saw  this,  and  assumed  that  the 
unjust  hirer  employed  both.  He  employs  both  no  more  than 
the  just  hirer.  The  only  difference  (in  the  outset)  is  that  the 
just  man  pays  sufficiently,  the  unjust  man  insufficiently,  for 
the  labour  of  the  single  person  employed. 

I say,  “ in  the  outset ; ” for  this  first  or  apparent  difference 
is  not  the  actual  difference.  By  the  un  just  procedure^  half  the 
proper  price  of  the  work  is  left  in  the  hands  of  the  employer. 


190 


QUT  JUBICATTS  TERR  AM. 


Tills  enables  him  to  hire  another  man  at  the  same  unjust  rate^ 
on  some  other  kind  of  work ; and  the  final  result  is  that  ha 
has  two  men  working  for  him  at  half  price,  and  two  are  out 
of  employ. 

By  the  just  procedure,  the  whole  price  of  the  first  piece  of 
work  goes  in  the  hands  of  the  man  who  does  it.  No  surplus 
being  left  in  the  employer’s  hands,  he  cannot  hire  another  man 
for  another  piece  of  labour.  But  by  precisely  so  much  as  his 
power  is  diminished,  the  hired  workman’s  power  is  increased  ; 
that  is  to  say,  by  the  additional  half  of  the  price  he  has  re- 
ceived ; which  additional  half  he  has  the  power  of  using  to 
employ  another  man  in  his  service.  I will  suppose,  for  the 
moment,  the  least  favourable,  though  cpiite  probable,  case — • 
that,  though  justly  treated  himself,  he  yet  will  act  unjustly  to 
his  subordinate  ; and  hire  at  half-price,  if  he  can.  The  final 
result  will  then  be,  that  one  man  works  for  the  employer,  at 
just  price ; one  for  the  workman,  at  half-price  ; and  two,  as 
in  the  first  case,  are  still  out  of  employ.  These  two,  as  I said 
before,  are  out  of  employ  in  hoik  cases.  The  difference  be- 
tween the  just  and  unjust  procedure  does  not  lie  in  the  num- 
ber of  men  hired,  but  in  the  price  paid  to  them,  and  the  per- 
sons by  whom  it  is  paid.  The  essential  difference,  that  which 
I want  the  reader  to  see  clearly,  is,  that  in  the  unjust  case, 
two  men  work  for  one,  the  first  hirer.  In  the  iust  case,  one 
man  works  for  the  first  hirer,  one  for  the  person  hired,  and 
so  on,  down  or  up  through  the  various  grades  of  service  ; 
the  influence  being  carried  forward  by  justice,  and  arrested 
by  injustice.  The  universal  and  constant  action  of  justice  in 
this  matter  is  therefore  to  diminish  the  power  of  wealth,  in 
the  hands  of  one  individual,  over  masses  of  men,  and  to  dis- 
tribute it  through  a chain  of  men.  The  actual  power  exerted 
by  the  wealth  is  the  same  in  both  cases ; but  by  injustice  it  is 
put  all  in  one  man’s  hands,  so  that  he  directs  at  once  and  with 
equal  force  the  labour  of  a circle  of  men  about  him  ; by  the 
just  procedure,  he  is  permitted  to  touch  the  nearest  only, 
through  whom,  with  diminished  force,  modified  by  new 
minds,  the  energy  of  the  wealth  passes  on  to  others,  and  sc 
till  it  exhausts  itself. 


QUI  JV  DIG  AT  IS  TERR  AM. 


191 


The  immediate  operation  of  justice  in  this  respect  is  there- 
fore to  diminish  the  power  of  wealth,  first  in  acquisition  of 
luxury,  and,  secondly,  in  exercise  of  moral  influence.  The 
employer  cannot  concentrate  so  multitudinous  labour  on  his 
own  interests,  nor  can  he  subdue  so  multitudinous  mind  to 
his  own  will.  But  the  secondary  operation  of  justice  is  not 
less  important.  The  insufficient  payment  of  the  group  of 
men  working  for  one,  places  each  under  a maximum  of  diffi- 
culty in  rising  above  his  position.  The  tendency  of  the  sys- 
tem is  to  check  advancement.  But  the  sufficient  or  just  pay- 
ment, distributed  through  a descending  series  of  offices  or 
grades  of  labour,*  gives  each  subordinated  person  fair  and 
sufficient  means  of  rising  in  the  social  scale,  if  he  chooses  to 
use  them  ; and  thus  not  only  diminishes  the  immediate  power 
of  wealth,  but  removes  the  worst  disabilities  of  poverty. 

It  is  on  this  vital  problem  that  the  entire  destiny  of  the 
labourer  is  ultimately  dependent.  Many  minor  interests  may 
sometimes  appear  to  interfere  with  it,  but  all  branch  from  it. 

* I am  sorry  to  lose  time  by  answering,  however  curtly,  the  equivo- 
cations of  the  writers  who  sought  to  obscure  the  instances  given  of  reg- 
ulated labour  in  the  first  of  these  papers,  by  confusing  kinds,  yanks, 
and  quantities  of  labour  with  its  qualities.  I never  said  that  a colonel 
should  have  the  same  pay  as  a private,  nor  a bishop  the  same  pay  as  a 
curate.  Neither  did  I say  that  more  work  ought  to  be  paid  as  less 
work  (so  that  the  curate  of  a parish  of  two  thousand  souls  should  have 
no  more  than  the  curate  of  a parish  of  five  hundred).  But  I said  that, 
so  far  as  you  employ  it  at  all,  bad  work  should  be  paid  no  less  than 
good  work ; as  a bad  clergyman  yet  takes  his  tithes,  a bad  physician 
takes  his  fee,  and  a bad  lawyer  his  costs.  And  this,  as  will  be  farther 
shown  in  the  conclusion,  I said,  and  say,  partly  because  the  best  work 
never  was  nor  ever  will  be,  done  for  money  at  all  ; but  chiefly  because, 
the  moment  people  know  they  have  to  pay  the  bad  and  good  alike, 
they  will  try  to  discern  the  one  from  the  other,  and  not  use  the  bad. 
A sagacious  writer  in  the  Scotsman  asks  me  if  I should  like  any  common 
scribbler  to  be  paid  by  Messrs  Smith,  Elder  and  Co.  as  their  good 
authors  are.  I should,  if  they  employed  him  —but  would  seriously  rec- 
ommend them,  for  the  scribbler’s  sake,  as  well  as  their  own,  not  to 
employ  him.  The  quantity  of  its  money  which  the  country  at  present 
invests  in  scribbling  is  not,  in  the  outcome  of  it,  economically  spent; 
and  even  the  highly  ingenious  person  to  whom  this  question  occurred, 
might  perhaps  have  been  more  beneficially  employed  than  iu  printing  it 


192 


QUI  JUDICATI8  TERR  AM. 


For  instance,  considerable  agitation  is  often  caused  in  thft 
minds  of  the  lower  classes  when  they  discover  the  share  which 
they  nominally,  and,  to  all  appearance,  actually,  pay  out  oi 
their  wages  in  taxation  (I  believe  thirty-five  or  forty  per 
cent.).  This  sounds  very  grievous ; but  in  reality  the  la- 
bourer does  not  pay  it,  but  his  employer.  If  the  workman 
had  not  to  pay  it,  his  wages  would  be  les3  by  just  that  sum  : 
competition  would  still  reduce  them  to  the  lowest  rate  at 
which  life  was  possible.  Similarly  the  lower  orders  agitated 
for  the  repeal  of  the  corn  laws,*  thinking  they  would  be  bet- 

* I have  to  acknowledge  ail  interesting  communication  on  the  subject 
of  free  trade  from  Paisley  (for  a short  letter  from  “ A Yv  ell- wisher  ” at 

, my  thanks  are  yet  more  due).  But  the  Scottish  writer  will,  I fear, 

be  disagreeably  surprised  to  hear,  that  I am,  and  always  have  been,  an 
utterly  fearless  and  unscrupulous  free-trader.  Seven  years  ago,  speak- 
ing of  the  various  signs  of  infancy  in  the  European  mind  {Stones  of  Ven- 
ice, voi.  iii.  p.  168),  I wrote : ‘'The  first  principles  of  commerce  were 
acknowledged  by  the  English  parliament  only  a few  months  ago,  and 
ill  its  free-trade  measures,  and  are  still  so  little  understood  by  the  mill- 
ion, that  no  nation  dares  to  abolish  Us  custom-houses 

It  will  he  observed  that  I do  not  admit  even  the  idea  of  reciprocity, 
let  other  nations,  if  they  like,  keep  their  ports  shut ; every  wise  nation 
will  throw  its  own  open.  It  is  not  the  opening  them,  but  a sudden,  in- 
considerate, and  blunderingly  experimental  manner  of  opening  them, 
which  does  the  harm.  If  you  have  been  protecting  a manufacture  for 
long  series  of  years,  you  must  not  take  protection  off  in  a moment,  so 
as  to  throw  every  one  of  its  operatives  at  once  out  of  employ,  any  more 
than  you  must  take  all  its  wrappings  off  a feeble  child  at  once  in  cold 
weather,  though  the  cumber  of  them  may  have  been  radically  injuring 
its  health.  Little  by  little,  you  must  restore  it  to  freedom  and  to  air. 

Most  people’s  minds  are  in  curious  confusion  on  the  subject  of  free 
trade,  because  they  suppose  it  to  imply  enlarged  competition.  On  the 
contrary,  free  trade  puts  an  end  to  all  competition.  “Protection” 
(among  various  other  mischievous  functions)  endeavours  to  enable  one 
country  to  compete  with  another  in  the  production  of  an  article  at  a dis- 
advantage. When  trade  is  entirely  free,  no  country  can  be  competed 
with  jn  the  articles  for  the  production  of  which  it  is  naturally  calcu- 
lated ; nor  can  it  compete  with  any  other  in  the  production  of  articles 
for  which  it  is  not  naturally  calculated.  Tuscany,  for  instance,  cannot 
compete  with  England  in  steel,  nor  England  with  Tuscany  in  oil.  Thej 
must  exchange  their  steel  and  oil.  Which  exchange  should  he  as  frank 
and  free  as  honesty  and  the  sea-winds  can  make  it.  Competition,  in- 


QUI  JUD1CATIS  TERRAM. 


193 


ter  off  if  bread  were  cheaper  ; never  perceiving  that  as  soon 
as  bread  was  permanently  cheaper,  wages  would  permanently 
fall  in  precisely  that  proportion.  The  corn  laws  were  rightly 
repealed  ; not,  however,  because  they  directly  oppressed  the 
poor,  but  because  they  indirectly  oppressed  them  in  causing 
a large  quantity  of  their  labour  to  be  consumed  unproduo- 
tively.  So  also  unnecessary  taxation  oppresses  them,  through 
destruction  of  capital,  but  the  destiny  of  the  poor  depends 
primarily  always  on  this  one  question  of  dueness  of  wages. 
Their  distress  (irrespectively  of  that  caused  by  sloth,  minor 
error,  or  crime)  arises  on  the  grand  scale  from  the  two  react- 
ing forces  of  competition  and  oppression.  There  is  not  yet, 
nor  will  yet  for  ages  be,  any  real  over-population  in  the  world ; 
but  a local  over-population,  or,  more  accurately,  a degree  of 
population  locally  unmanageable  under  existing  circumstances 
for  want  of  forethought  and  sufficient  machinery,  necessarily 
shows  itself  by  pressure  of  competition  ; and  the  taking  ad- 
vantage of  this  competition  by  the  purchaser  to  obtain  their 
labour  unjustly  cheap,  consummates  at  once  their  suffering 
and  his  oT,vn  ; for  in  this  (as  I believe  in  every  other  kind  of 
slavery)  the  oppressor  suffers  at  last  more  than  the  oppressed, 
and  those  magnificent  lines  of  Pope,  even  in  all  their  force, 
fall  short  of  the  truth — 

“ Yet,  to  be  just  to  tliese  poor  men  of  pelf, 

Each  does  but  hate  his  neighbour  as  himself  : 

Damned  to  the  mines,  an  equal  fate  betides 
The  slave  that  digs  it,  and  the  slave  that  hides.” 

The  collateral  and  reversionary  operations  of  justice  in  this 
matter  I shall  examine  hereafter  (it  being  needful  first  to  de- 
fine the  nature  of  value)  ; proceeding  then  to  consider  within 
what  practical  terms  a juster  system  may  be  established  ; and 
ultimately  the  vexed  question  of  the  destinies  of  the  unem- 
ployed workmen.*  Lest,  liowTever,  the  reader  should  be 

deed,  arises  at  first,  and  sharply,  in  order  to  prove  which  is  strongest  in 
any  given  manufacture  possible  to  both  ; this  point  once  ascertained, 
competition  is  at  an  end. 

* I should  be  glad  if  the  reader  would  first  clear  the  ground  for  him- 
self so  far  as  to  determine  whether  the  difficulty  lies  in  getting  the  work 


194: 


QUI  JUDICAT1S  TERR  AM. 


alarmed  at  some  of  the  issues  to  which  our  investigations 
seem  to  be  tending,  as  if  in  their  bearing  against  the  power 
of  wealth  they  had  something  in  common  with  those  of  social- 
ism, I wish  him  to  know,  in  accurate  terms,  one  or  two  of 
the  main  points  which  I have  in  view. 

Whether  socialism  has  made  more  progress  among  the 
army  and  navy  (where  payment  is  made  on  my  principles),  or 
among  the  manufacturing  operatives  (who  are  paid  on  my  op- 
ponents’ principles),  I leave  it  to  those  opponents  to  ascertain 
and  declare.  Whatever  their  conclusion  may  be,  I think  it 
necessary  to  answer  for  myself  only  this  : that  if  there  be  any 
one  point  insisted  on  throughout  my  works  more  frequently 
than  another,  that  one  point  is  the  impossibility  of  Equality. 
My  continual  aim  has  been  to  show  the  eternal  superiority  of 
some  men  to  others,  sometimes  even  of  one  man  to  all  others; 
and  to  show  also  the  advisability  of  appointing  more  such  per- 
sons or  person  to  guide,  to  lead,  or  on  occasion  even  to  compel 
and  subdue,  their  inferiors,  according  to  their  own  better 
knowledge  and  wiser  will.  My  principles  of  Political  Economy 
were  all  involved  in  a single  phrase  spoken  three  years  ago  at 

getting  the  pay  for  it.  Does  he  consider  occupation  itself  to  be  an 
expensive  luxury,  difficult  of  attainment,  of  which  too  little  is  to  be 
found  in  the  world  ? or  is  it  rather  that,  while  in  the  enjoyment  even 
of  the  most  athletic  delight,  men  must  nevertheless  be  maintained,  and 
this  maintenance  is  not  always  forthcoming  ? We  must  he  clear  on  this 
head  before  going  farther,  as  most  people  are  loosely  in  the  habit  of 
talking  of  the  difficulty  of  “ finding  employment. ” Is  it  employment 
that  we  want  to  find,  or  support  during  employment  ? Is  it  idleness 
we  wish  to  put  an  end  to,  or  hunger  ? We  have  to  take  up  both  ques- 
tions in  succession,  only  not  both  at  the  same  time.  No  doubt  that 
work  is  a luxury,  and  a very  great  one.  It  is,  indeed,  at  once  a luxury 
and  a necessity ; no  man  can  retain  either  health  of  mind  or  body  with- 
out it.  So  profoundly  do  I feel  this,  that,  as  will  be  seen  in  the  sequel, 
one  of  the  principal  objects  I would  recommend  to  benevolent  and  prac- 
tical persons,  is  to  induce  rich  people  to  seek  for  a larger  quantity  of 
this  luxury  than  they  at  present  possess.  Nevertheless,  it  appears  by 
experience  that  even  this  healthiest  of  pleasures  may  be  indulged  in  to 
excess,  and  that  human  beings  are  just  as  liable  to  surfeit  of  labour  as 
to  surfeit  of  meat ; so  that,  as  on  the  one  hand,  it  may  be  charitable  U 
provide,  for  some  people,  lighter  dinner,  and  more  work, —for  others 
it  may  be  equally  expedient  to  provide  lighter  work,  and  more  dinner. 


QUI  JU DIC AT IS  T EUR AM. 


195 


Manchester  : “ Soldiers  of  the  Ploughshare  as  well  as  soldiers 
of  the  Sword  : ” and  they  were  all  summed  in  a single  sentence 
in  the  last  volume  of  Modern  Painters — “ Government  and  co- 
operation are  in  all  things  the  Laws  of  Life  ; Anarchy  and  com- 
petition the  Laws  of  Death.” 

And  with  respect  to  the  mode  in  which  these  general  prin- 
ciples affect  the  secure  possession  of  property,  so  far  am  I from 
invalidating  such  security,  that  the  whole  gist  of  these  papers 
will  be  found  ultimately  to  aim  at  an  extension  in  its  range  ; 
and  whereas  it  has  long  been  known  and  declared  that  the 
poor  have  no  right  to  the  property  of  the  rich,  I wish  it  also 
to  be  known  and  declared  that  the  rich  have  no  right  to  the 
property  of  the  poor. 

But  that  the  working  of  the  system  which  I have  undertaken 
to  develop  would  in  many  ways  shorten  the  apparent  and  di- 
rect, though  not  the  unseen  and  collateral,  power,  both  of 
wealth,  as  the  Lady  of  Pleasure,  and  of  capital  as  the  Lord  of 
Toil,  I do  not  deny  : on  the  contrary,  I affirm  it  in  all  joyful- 
ness  ; knowing  that  the  attraction  of  riches  is  already  too 
strong,  as  their  authority  is  already  too  weighty,  for  the  rea- 
son of  mankind.  I said  in  my  last  paper  that  nothing  in  his- 
tory had  ever  been  so  disgraceful  to  human  intellect  as  the 
acceptance  among  us  of  the  common  doctrines  of  political! 
economy  as  a science.  I have  many  grounds  for  saying  this, 
but  one  of  the  chief  may  be  given  in  few  words.  I know  no 
previous  instance  in  history  of  a nation’s  establishing  a system- 
atic disobedience  to  the  first  principles  of  its  professed  relig- 
ion. The  writings  which  we  (verbally)  esteem  as  divine,  not 
only  denounce  the  love  of  money  as  the  source  of  all  evil,  and 
as  an  idolatry  abhorred  of  the  Deity,  but  declare  mammon 
service  to  be  the  accurate  and  irreconcileable  opposite  of  God’s 
service  : and,  whenever  they  speak  of  riches  absolute,  and  pov- 
erty absolute,  declare  woe  to  the  rich,  and  blessing  to  the 
poor.  Whereupon  we  forthwith  investigate  a science  of  ber 
coming  rich,  as  the  shortest  road  to  national  prosperity. 

“ Tai  Cristian  dannera  l’Etiope, 

Quando  si  partiraimo  i due  collegi, 

L’UNO  IN  ETERNO  RICCO,  E L’ALTRO  IN5pEo* 


ESSAY  IY. 


AD  VALOREM. 

In  the  last  paper  we  saw  that  just  payment  of  labour  com 
sisted  in  a sum  of  money  which  would  approximately  obtain 
equivalent  labour  at  a future  time  : we  have  now  to  examine 
the  means  of  obtaining  such  equivalence.  Which  question 
involves  the  definition  of  Value,  Wealth,  Price,  and  Prod- 
uce. 

None  of  these  terms  are  yet  defined  so  as  to  be  understood 
by  the  public.  But  the  last,  Produce,  which  one  might  have 
thought  the  clearest  of  all,  is,  in  use,  the  most  ambiguous  ; 
and  the  examination  of  the  hind  of  ambiguity  attendant 
on  its  present  employment  will  best  open  the  way  to  our 
work. 

In  his  chapter  on  Capital,*  Mr.  J.  S.  Mill  instances,  as  a 
capitalist,  a hardware  manufacturer,  who,  having  intended  to 
spend  a certain  portion  of  the  proceeds  of  his  business  in  buy- 
ing plate  and  jewels,  changes  his  mind,  and  “ pays  it  as  wages 
to  additional  Workpeople.”  The  effect  is  stated  by  Mr.  Mill 
to  be,  that  “ more  food  is  appropriated  to  the  consumption  of 
productive  labourers.” 

Now,  I do  not  ask,  though,  had  I wrritten  this  paragraph,  it 
would  surely  have  been  asked  of  me,  What  is  to  become  of 
the  silversmiths  ? If  they  are  truly  unproductive  persons,  we 
will  acquiesce  in  their  extinction.  And  though  in  another 
part  of  the  same  passage,  the  hardware  merchant  is  supposed 
also  to  dispense  with  a number  of  servants,  whose  “ food  is 
thus  set  free  for  productive  purposes,”  I do  not  inquire  what 
will  be  the  effect,  painful  or  otherwise,  upon  the  servants,  of 

* Book  I.  chap.  iv.  s.  1.  To  save  space,  my  future  references  to  Mr, 
Mill’s  work  will  be  by  numerals  only,  as  hi  this  instance,  I.  iv.  1.  Ed 
in  2 vols.  8vo.  Parker,  1848. 


AD  VALOREM. 


197 


this  emancipation  of  their  food.  But  I very  seriously  inquire 
why  ironware  is  produce,  and  silverware  is  not  ? That  the 
merchant  consumes  the  one,  and  sells  the  other,  certainly  does 
not  constitute  the  difference,  unless  it  can  be  shown  (which, 
indeed,  I perceive  it  to  be  becoming  daily  more  and  more  the 
aim  of  tradesmen  to  show)  that  commodities  are  made  to  be 
sold,  and  not  to  be  consumed.  The  merchant  is  an  agent  of 
conveyance  to  the  consumer  in  one  case,  and  is  himself  the 
consumer  in  the  other  : * but  the  labourers  are  in  either  case 
equally  productive,  since  they  have  produced  goods  to  the 
same  value,  if  the  hardware  and  the  plate  are  both  goods. 

And  what  distinction  separates  them  ? It  is  indeed  possible 
that  in  the  “ comparative  estimate  of  the  moralist,”  with  which 
Mr.  Mill  says  political  economy  has  nothing  to  do  (III.  i.  2)  s 
steel  fork  might  appear  a more  substantial  production  than  a 
silver  one  : we  may  grant  also  that  knives,  no  less  than  forks, 
are  good  produce  ; and  scythes  and  ploughshares  serviceable 
articles.  But,  how  of  bayonets?  Supposing  the  hardware 
merchant  to  effect  large  sales  of  these,  by  help  of  the  <c  setting- 
free  ” of  the  food  of  his  servants  and  his  silversmith, — is  he 
still  employing  productive  labourers,  or,  in  Mr.  Mill’s  -words, 
labourers  who  increase  “ the  stock  of  permanent  means  of  en- 
joyment ” (I.  iii.  4).  Or  if,  instead  of  bayonets,  he  supply 
bombs,  will  not  the  absolute  and  final  “ enjoyment  ” of  even 
these  energetically  productive  articles  (each  of  which  costs 
ten  pounds)!  be  dependent  on  a proper  choice  of  time  and 

* If  Mr,  Mill  had  wished  to  show  the  difference  in  result  between 
consumption  and  sale,  he  should  have  represented  the  hardware  mer- 
chant as  consuming  his  own  goods  instead  of  selling  them  ; similarly, 
the  silver  merchant  as  consuming  his  own  goods  instead  of  selling  them. 
Had  he  done  this,  he  would  have  made  his  position  clearer,  though  less 
tenable  ; and  perhaps  this  was  the  position  he  really  intended  to  take, 
tacitly  involving  his  theory,  elsewhere  stated,  and  shown  in  the  sequel 
of  this  paper  to  be  false,  that  demand  for  commodities  is  not  demand 
for  labour.  But  by  the  most  diligent  scrutiny  of  the  paragraph  now 
under  examination,  I cannot  determine  whether  it  is  a fallacy  pure  and 
simple,  or  the  half  of  one  fallacy  supported  by  the  whole  of  a greater 
one  ; so  that  I treat  it  here  on  the  kinder  assumption  that  it  is  one  fallacy 
only. 

f I take  Mr.  Helps’  estimate  in  his  essay  on  War. 


198 


AD  VALOREM. 


place  for  their  enfantement  ; choice,  that  is  to  say,  depending 
on  those  philosophical  considerations  with  which  political 
economy  has  nothing  to  do  ? * 

I should  have  regretted  the  need  of  pointing  out  inconsis* 
tency  in  any  portion  of  Mr.  Mill’s  work,  had  not  the  value  oi 
his  work  proceeded  from  its  inconsistencies.  He  deserves 
honour  among  economists  by  inadvertently  disclaiming  the 
principles  which  he  states,  and  tacitly  introducing  the  moral 
considerations  with  which  he  declares  his  science  has  no  con- 
nection. Many  of  his  chapters  are,  therefore,  true  and  valua- 
ble ; and  the  only  conclusions  of  his  which  I have  to  dispute 
are  those  which  follow  from  his  premises. 

Thus,  the  idea  which  lies  at  the  root  of  the  passage  we  have 
just  been  examining,  namely,  that  labour  applied  to  produce 
luxuries  will  not  support  so  many  persons  as  labour  applied 
to  produce  useful  articles,  is  entirely  true ; but  the  instance 
given  fails — and  in  four  directions  of  failure  at  once — because 
Mr.  Mill  lias  not  defined  the  real  meaning  of  usefulness. 
The  definition  which  he  has  given — “ capacity  to  satisfy  a 
desire,  or  serve  a purpose  ” (331.  i.  2) — applies  equally  to  the 
iron  and  silver ; while  the  true  definition — which  he  has  not 
given,  but  which  nevertheless  underlies  the  false  verbal  defi- 
nition in  his  mind,  and  comes  out  once  or  twice  by  accident 
(as  in  the  words  “any  support  to  life  or  strength”  in  L i.  5) 
— applies  to  some  articles  of  iron,  but  not  to  others,  and  to 
some  articles  of  silver,  but  not  to  others.  It  applies  to 
ploughs,  but  not  to  bayonets ; and  to  forks,  but  not  to  fili- 
gree, f 

The  eliciting  of  the  true  definition  will  give  us  the  reply  to 

* Also  when  the  wrought  silver  vases  of  Spain  were  dashed  to  frag- 
ments by  our  custom-house  officers,  because  bullion  might  be  imported 
free  of  duty,  but  not  brains,  was  the  axe  that  broke  them  productive  ? — 
the  artist  who  wrought  them  unproductive  ? Or  again.  If  the  wood- 
man’s axe  is  productive,  is  the  executioner’s  ? as  also,  if  the  hemp  of  a 
cable  be  productive,  does  not  the  productiveness  of  hemp  in  a halter  de- 
pend on  its  moral  more  than  on  its  material  application  ? 

f Filigree  : that  is  to  say,  generally,  ornament  dependent  on  conv 
plexity,  not  on  art. 


AD  VALOREM. 


199 


our  first  question,  “ What  is  value  ? ” respecting  which,  how- 
ever, we  must  first  hear  the  popular  statements. 

“The  word  { value,’  "when  used  without  adjunct,  always 
means,  in  political  economy,  value  in  exchange  ” (Mill,  III.  i. 
3).  So  that,  ff  two  ships  cannot  exchange  their  rudders,  their 
rudders  are,  in  politico-economic  language,  of  no  value  to 
either. 

But  “ the  subject  of  political  economy  is  wealth.” — (Pre- 
liminary remarks,  page  1.) 

And  wealth  “consists  of  all  useful  and  agreeable  objects 
which  possess  exchangeable  value.” — (Preliminary  remarks, 
page  10.) 

It  appears,  then,  according  to  Mr.  Mill,  that  usefulness  and 
agreeableness  underlie  the  exchange  value,  and  must  be  as- 
certained to  exist  in  the  thing,  before  we  can  esteem  it  an  ob- 
ject of  -wealth. 

Now,  the  economical  usefulness  of  a thing  depends  not 
merely  on  its  own  nature,  but  on  the  number  of  people  who 
can  and  will  use  it.  A horse  is  useless,  and  therefore  unsale- 
able, if  no  one  can  ride, — a sword  if  no  one  can  strike,  and 
meat,  if  no  one  can  eat.  Thus  every  material  utility  depends 
on  its  relative  human  capacity. 

Similarly  : The  agreeableness  of  a thing  depends  not  merely 
on  its  own  likeableness,  but  on  the  number  of  people  who  can 
be  got  to  like  it.  The  relative  agreeableness,  and  therefore 
saleableness,  of  “ a pot  of  the  smallest  ale,”  and  of  “ Adonis 
painted  by  a running  brook,”  depends  virtually  on  the  opinion 
of  Demos,  in  the  shape  of  Christopher  Sly.  That  is  to  say, 
the  agreeableness  of  a thing  depends  on  its  relative  human 
disposition.*  Therefore,  political  economy,  being  a science  of 

* These  statements  sound  crude  in  their  brevity ; but  will  be  found 
of  the  utmost  importance  when  they  are  developed.  Thus,  in  the  above 
instance,  economists  have  never  perceived  that  disposition  to  buy  is  a 
wholly  moral  element  in  demand : that  is  to  say,  when  you  give  a man 
half-a-crown,  it  depends  on  liis  disposition  whether  he  is  rich  or  poor 
with  it — whether  he  will  buy  disease,  ruin,  and  hatred,  or  buy  health, 
advancement,  and  domestio  love^  And  thus  the  agreeableness  or  ex- 
change value  of  every  offered  commodity  depends  on  production,  not 
merely  of  the  commodity,  but  of  buyers  of  it ; therefore  on  the  educa 


200 


AD  VALOREM. 


wealth,  must  be  a science  respecting  human  capacities  and 
dispositions.  But  moral  considerations  have  nothing  to  do 
with  political  economy  (III.  i.  2).  Therefore,  moral  consider* 
ations  have  nothing  to  do  with  human  capacities  and  disposi- 
tions. 

I do  not  wholly  like  the  look  of  this  conclusion  from  Mr 
Mill’s  statements  : — let  us  try  Mr.  Ricardo’s. 

“ Utility  is  not  the  measure  of  exchangeable  value,  though 
it  is  absolutely  essential  to  it.” — (Chap.  I sect,  i.)  Essential 
in  what  degree,  Mr.  Ricardo  ? There  may  be  greater  and  less 
degrees  of  utility.  Meat,  for  instance,  may  be  so  good  as  to 
be  fit  for  any  one  to  eat,  or  so  bad  as  to  be  fit  for  no  one  to 
eat.  What  is  the  exact  degree  of  goodness  which  is  “ essen- 
tial ” to  its  exchangeable  value,  but  not  “ the  measure  ” of  it  ? 
How  good  must  the  meat  be,  in  order  to  possess  any  exchange- 
able value  ; and  how  bad  must  it  be — (I  wish  this  were  a set- 
tled question  in  London  markets) — in  order  to  possess  none  ? 

There  appears  to  be  some  hitch,  I think,  in  the  working 
even  of  Mr.  Ricardo’s  principles  ; but  let  him  take  his  own 
example.  “ Suppose  that  in  the  early  stages  of  society  the 
bows  and  arrows  of  the  hunter  were  of  equal  value  with  the 
implements  of  the  fisherman.  Under  such  circumstances  the 
value  of  the  deer,  the  produce  of  the  hunter’s  day’s  labour, 
would  be  exactly  ” (italics  mine)  “ equal  to  the  value  of  the 
fish,  the  product  of  the  fisherman’s  day’s  labour.  The  com- 
parative value  of  the  fish  and  game  would  be  entirely  regulated 
by  the  quantity  of  labour  realized  in  each.”  (Ricardo,  chap, 
iii.  On  Value). 

Indeed  ! Therefore,  if  the  fisherman  catches  one  sprat,  and 
the  huntsman  one  deer,  one  sprat  will  be  equal  in  value  to  one 

tion  of  "buyers  and  on  all  tlie  moral  elements  by  which  their  disposition 
to  buy  this,  or  that,  is  formed.  I will  illustrate  and  expand  into  final 
consequences  every  one  of  these  definitions  in  its  place  : at  present  they 
can  only  be  given  with  extremes!  brevity  ; for  in  order  to  put  the  sub- 
ject at  once  in  a connected  form  before  the  reader,  I have  thrown  inta 
one,  the  opening  definitions  of  four  chapters ; namely,  of  that  on  Valuv 
(“Ad  Valorem”);  on  Price  (“  Thirty  Pieces”)  ; on  Production  (“Do* 
meter”) ; and  on  Economy  (“  The  Law  of  the  House  ”). 


AD  VALOREM. 


201 


deer  ; but  if  tUe  fisherman  catches  no  sprat,  and  the  hunts- 
man two  deer,  no  sprat  will  be  equal  in  value  to  two  deer  ? 

Nay  ; but — Mr.  Ricardo’s  supporters  may  say — he  means, 
on  an  average  ; — if  the  average  product  of  a day’s  work  oS 
fisher  and  hunter  be  one  fish  and  one  deer,  the  one  fish  will 
always  be  equal  in  value  to  the  one  deer. 

Might  I inquire  the  species  of  fish.  Whale  ? or  whitebait  r * 
It  would  be  waste  of  time  to  pursue  these  fallacies  farther ; 
we  will  seek  for  a true  definition. 

* Perhaps  it  may  be  said,  in  farther  support  of  Mr.  Ricardo,  that  he 
meant,  “ when  the  utility  is  constant  or  given,  the  price  varies  as  the 
quantity  of  labour.”  If  he  meant  this,  he  should  have  said  it ; but,  had 
he  meant  it,  he  could  have  hardly  missed  the  necessary  result,  that 
utility  would  be  one  measure  of  price  (which  he  expressly  denies  it  to 
be)  ; and  that,  to  prove  saleableness,  he  had  to  prove  a given  quantity 
of  utility,  as  well  as  a given  quantity  of  labour  ; to  wit,  in  his  own  ill 
stance,  that  the  deer  and  fish  would  each  feed  the  same  number  of  men, 
for  the  same  number  of  days,  with  equal  pleasure  to  their  palates.  The 
fact  is,  he  did  not  know  what  he  meant  himself.  The  general  idea 
which  he  had  derived  from  commercial  experience,  without  being  able 
to  analyse  it,  was,  that  when  the  demand  is  constant,  the  price  varies  as 
the  quantity  of  labour  required  for  production  ; or, — using  the  formula 
I gave  in  last  paper — when  y is  constant,  x y varies  as  x.  But  demand 
never  is,  nor  can  be,  ultimately  constant,  if  x varies  distinctly  ; for,  as 
price  rises,  consumers  fall  away  ; and  as  soon  as  there  is  a monopoly 
(and  all  scarcity  is  a form  of  monopoly  ; so  that  every  commodity  is  af- 
fected occasionally  by  some  colour  of  monopoly),  y becomes  the  most 
influential  condition  of  the  price.  Thus  the  price  of  a painting  depends 
less  on  its  merits  than  on  the  interest  taken  in  it  by  the  public  ; the 
price  of  singing  less  on  the  labour  of  the  singer  than  the  number  of 
persons  who  desire  to  hear  him  ; and  the  price  of  gold  less  on  the  scarc- 
ity which  affects  it  in  common  with  cerium  or  iridium,  than  on  the  sun- 
light colour  and  unalterable  purity  by  which  it  attracts  the  admiration 
and  answers  the  trusts  of  mankind. 

It  must  be  kept  in  mind,  however,  that  I use  the  word  “ demand  ” in 
a somewhat  different  sense  from  economists  usually.  They  mean  by 
it  “the  quantity  of  a thing  sold.”  I mean  by  it  “the  force  of  the 
buyer's  capable  intention  to  buy.”  In  good  English,  a person’s  “ de> 
mand  ” signifies,  not  what  he  gets,  but  what  he  asks  for. 

Economists  also  do  not  notice  that  objects  are  not  valued  by  absolute 
bulk  or  weight,  but  by  such  bulk  and  weight  as  is  necessary  to  bring 
them  into  use.  They  say,  for  instance,  that  water  bears  no  price  in  tka 
6 


202 


AD  VALOREM. 


Much  store  has  been  set  for  centuries  upon  the  use  of  our 
English  classical  education.  It  were  to  be  wished  that  our 
well-educated  merchants  recalled  to  inind  always  this  much  of 
their  Latin  schooling, — that  the  nominative  of  valorem  (a  word 
already  sufficiently  familiar  to  them)  is  valor  ; a word  which, 
therefore,  ought  to  be  familiar  to  them.  Valor,  from  valere T 
to  be  well,  or  strong  (yyialvoi)  ; — strong,  in  life  (if  a man), 
or  valiant  ; strong,  for  life  (if  a thing),  or  valuable.  To  be 
“ valuable,”  therefore,  is  to  “ avail  towards  life.”  A truly  val- 
uable or  availing  thing  is  that  which  leads  to  life  with  its 
whole  strength.  In  proportion  as  it  does  not  lead  to  life,  or 
as  its  strength  is  broken,  it  is  less  valuable  ; in  proportion  as 
it  leads  away  from  life,  it  is  unvaluable  or  malignant. 

The  value  of  a thing,  therefore,  is  independent  of  opinion, 
and  of  quantity.  Think  what  you  will  of  it,  gain  how  much 
you  may  of  it,  the  value  of  the  thing  itself  is  neither  greater 
nor  less.  For  ever  it  avails,  or  avails  not ; no  estimate  can 
raise,  no  disdain  depress,  the  power  which  it  holds  from  the 
Maker  of  things  and  of  men. 

The  real  science  of  political  economy,  which  has  yet  to  ba 
distinguished  from  the  bastard  science,  as  medicine  from 
witchcraft,  and  astronomy  from  astrology,  is  that  which 
teaches  nations  to  desire  and  labour  for  the  things  that  lead 
to  life  ; and  which  teaches  them  to  scorn  and  destroy  the 
things  that  lead  to  destruction.  And  if,  in  a state  of  infancy, 
they  suppose  indifferent  things,  such  as  excrescences  of  shell- 
fish, and  pieces  of  blue  and  red  stone,  to  be  valuable,  and 
spend  large  measure  of  the  labour  which  ought  to  be  em- 
ployed for  the  extension  and  ennobling  of  life,  in  diving  or 
digging  for  them,  and  cutting  them  into  various  shapes, — or 
if,  in  the  same  state  of  infancy,  they  imagine  precious  and 
beneficent  things,  such  as  air,  light,  and  cleanliness,  to  be 
valueless, — or  if,  finally,  they  imagine  the  conditions  of  their 

market.  It  is  true  that  a cupful  does  not,  but  a lake  does ; just  as  a 
handful  of  dust  does  not,  but  an  acre  does.  And  were  it  possible  to 
make  even  the  possession  of  the  cupful  or  handful  permanent  (i.  e.  to 
find  a place  for  them,)  the  earth  and  sea  would  be  bought  up  by  hand- 
fuls and  cupfuls. 


AD  VALOREM. 


203 


own  existence,  by  which  alone  they  can  truly  possess  or  use 
anything,  such,  for  instance,  as  peace,  trust,  and  love,  to  be 
prudently  exchangeable,  when  the  market  offers,  for  gold, 
iron,  or  excrescences  of  shells — the  great  and  only  science  of 
Political  Economy  teaches  them,  in  all  these  cases,  what  is 
vanity,  and  what  substance  ; and  how  the  service  of  Death, 
the  Lord  of  Waste,  and  of  eternal  emptiness,  differs  from  the 
service  of  Wisdom,  the  Lady  of  Saving,  and  of  eternal  ful- 
ness ; she  who  has  said,  “I  will  cause  those  that  love  me  to 
inherit  Substance  ; and  I will  Fill  their  treasures.” 

The  “Lady  of  Saving,”  in  a profounder  sense  than  that  of 
the  savings’  bank,  though  that  is  a good  one : Madonna  della 
Salute, — Lady  of  Health — which,  though  commonly  spoken 
of  as  if  separate  from  wealth,  is  indeed  a part  of  wealth. 
This  word,  “wealth,”  it  wall  be  remembered,  is  the  next  we 
have  to  define. 

“To  be  wealthy,”  says  Mr.  Mill,  is  “ to  have  a large  stock 
of  useful  articles.” 

I accept  this  definition.  Only  let  us  perfectly  understand 
it.  My  opponents  often  lament  my  not  giving  them  enough 
logic  : I fear  I must  at  present  use  a little  more  than  they  will 
like  ; but  this  business  of  Political  Economy  is  no  light  one, 
and  we  must  allow  no  loose  terms  in  it. 

We  have,  therefore,  to  ascertain  in  the  above  definition,  first, 
what  is  the  meaning  of  “ having,”  or  the  nature  of  Possession. 
Then  what  is  the  meaning  of  “useful,”  or  the  nature  of 
Utility. 

And  first  of  possession.  At  the  crossing  of  the  transepts  of 
Milan  Cathedral  has  lain,  for  three  hundred  years,  the  em- 
balmed body  of  St.  Carlo  Borromeo.  It  holds  a golden 
crosier,  and  has  a cross  of  emeralds  on  its  breast.  Admitting 
the  crosier  and  emeralds  to  be  useful  articles,  is  the  body  to 
be  considered  as  “ having  ” them  ? Do  they,  in  the  politico- 
economical  sense  of  propertj^,  belong  to  it  ? If  not,  and  if  we 
may,  therefore,  conclude  generally  that  a dead  body  cannot 
possess  property,  what  degree  and  period  of  animation  in  the 
body  will  render  possession  possible  ? 

As  thus : lately  in  a wreck  of  a Californian  ship,  one  of  the 


204 


AD  VALOREM. 


passengers  fastened  a belt  about  him  with  two  hundred 
pounds  of  gold  in  it,  with  which  he  was  found  afterwards  at 
the  bottom.  Now,  as  he  was  sinking — had  he  the  gold  ? or 
had  the  gold  him  ? * 

And  if,  instead  of  sinking  him  in  the  sea  by  its  weight,  the 
gold  had  struck  him  on  the  forehead,  and  thereby  caused  in- 
curable disease — suppose  palsy  or  insanity, —would  the  gold 
in  that  case  have  been  more  a “possession  ” than  in  the  first? 
Without  pressing  the  inquiry  up  through  instances  of  gradual 
increasing  vital  power  over  the  gold  (which  I will,  however, 
give,  if  they  are  asked  for),  I presume  the  reader  wall  see  that 
possession,  or  “having,”  is  not  an  absolute,  but  a gradated, 
power  ; and  consists  not  only  in  the  quantity  or  nature  of  the 
thing  possessed,  but  also  (and  in  a greater  degree)  in  its  suita- 
bleness to  the  person  possessing  it,  and  in  his  vital  power  to 
use  it. 

And  our  definition  of  Wealth,  expanded,  becomes:  “The 
possession  of  useful  articles,  which  we  can  use”  This  is  a 
very  serious  change.  For  wealth,  instead  of  depending 
merely  on  a “have,”  is  thus  seen  to  depend  on  a “can.” 
Gladiator’s  death,  on  a “habet;”  but  soldier’s  victory,  and 
state’s  salvation,  on  a “ quo  plurimum  posset.”  (Liv.  YIL 
6.)  And  what  we  reasoned  of  only  as  accumulation  of  ma- 
terial, is  seen  to  demand  also  accumulation  of  capacity. 

So  much  for  our  verb.  Next  for  our  adjective.  What  is 
the  meaning  of  “useful?  ” 

The  inquiry  is  closely  connected  with  the  last.  For  what 
is  capable  of  use  in  the  hands  of  some  persons,  is  capable,  in 
the  hands  of  others,  of  the  opposite  of  use,  called  commonly, 
“from-use  or  ab-use.”  And  it  depends  on  the  person,  much 
more  than  on  the  article,  whether  its  usefulness  or  ab-usefub 
ness  will  be  the  quality  developed  in  it.  Thus,  wine,  which 
the  Greeks,  in  their  Bacchus,  made,  rightly,  the  type  of  all 
passion,  and  which,  wdien  used,  “cheereth  god  and  man” 
(that  is  to  say,  strengthens  both  the  divine  life,  or  reasoning 
power,  and  the  earthly,  or  carnal  power,  of  man)  ; yet,  when 
abused,  becomes  “ Dionusos,”  hurtful  especially  to  the  divine 
* Compare  George  Herbert,  The  Church  Torch , Stanza  28. 


AD  VALOREM. 


205 


part  of  man,  or  reason.  And  again,  the  body  itself,  being 
equally  liable  to  use  and  to  abuse,  and,  when  rightly  disci- 
plined, serviceable  to  the  State,  both  for  war  and  labour ; — 
but  when  not  disciplined,  or  abused,  valueless  to  the  State, 
and  capable  only  of  continuing  the  private  or  single  existence 
of  the  individual  (and  that  but  feebly) — the  Greeks  called 
such  a body  an  “idiotic”  or  “private  ” body,  from  their  word 
signifying  a person  employed  in  no  way  directly  useful  to  the 
State  ; whence,  finally,  our  “ idiot,”  meaning  a person  en- 
tirely occupied  with  his  own  concerns. 

Hence,  it  follows,  that  if  a thing  is  to  be  useful,  it  must  be 
not  only  of  an  availing  nature,  but  in  availing  hands.  Or,  in 
accurate  terms,  usefulness  is  value  in  the  hands  of  the  valiant ; 
so  that  this  science  of  wealth  being,  as  we  have  just  seen, 
when  regarded  as  the  science  of  Accumulation,  accumulative 
of  capacity  as  well  as  of  material, — when  regarded  as  the 
Science  of  Distribution,  is  distribution  not  absolute,  but  dis- 
criminate ; not  of  every  thing  to  every  man,  but  of  the  right 
thing  to  the  right  man.  A difficult  science,  dependent  on 
more  than  arithmetic. 

Wealth,  therefore,  is  “the  possession  of  the  valuable  by 
the  valiant  ; ” and  in  considering  it  as  a power  existing  in 
a nation,  the  two  elements,  the  value  of  the  thing,  and  the 
valour  of  its  possessor,  must  be  estimated  together.  Whence 
it  appears  that  many  of  the  persons  commonly  considered 
wealthy,  are  in  reality  no  more  wealthy  than  the  locks  of 
their  own  strong  boxes  are  ; they  being  inherently  and  eter- 
nally incapable  of  wealth  ; and  operating  for  the  nation,  in 
an  economical  point  of  view,  either  as  pools  of  dead  water, 
and  eddies  in  a stream  (which,  so  long  as  the  stream  flows, 
are  useless,  or  serve  only  to  drown  people,  but  may  become 
of  importance  in  a state  of  stagnation,  should  the  stream  dry) ; 
or  else,  as  dams  in  a river,  of  which  the  ultimate  service  de- 
pends not  on  the  dam,  but  the  miller  ; or  else,  as  mere  acci- 
dental stays  and  impediments,  acting,  not  as  wealth,  but  (for 
we  ought  to  have  a correspondent  term)  as  “illth,”  causing 
various  devastation  and  trouble  around  them  in  all  directions  ; 
or  lastly,  act  not  at  all,  but  are  merely  animated  conditions  of 


206 


AD  VALOREM. 


delay,  (no  use  being  possible  of  anything  they  have  until  they 
fire  dead,)  in  which  last  condition  they  are  nevertheless  often 
useful  as  delays,  and  “ impedimenta,  ” if  a nation  is  apt  to 
move  too  fast. 

This  being  so,  the  difficulty  of  the  true  science  of  Political 
Economy  lies  not  merely  in  the  need  of  developing  manly 
character  to  deal  with  material  value,  but  in  the  fact,  that 
while  the  manly  character  and  material  value  only  form  wealth 
by  their  conjunction,  they  have  nevertheless  a mutually  de- 
structive operation  on  each  other.  For  the  manly  character 
is  apt  to  ignore,  or  even  cast  away,  the  material  value : — 
whence  that  of  Pope  : — 

“ Sure,  of  qualities  demanding  praise 
More  go  to  ruin  fortunes,  than  to  raise,” 

And  on  the  other  hand,  the  material  value  is  apt  to  under- 
mine the  manly  character  ; so  that  it  must  be  our  work,  in 
the  issue,  to  examine  what  evidence  there  is  of  the  effect  of 
wealth  on  the  minds  of  its  possessors  ; also,  what  kind  ot 
person  it  is  who  usually  sets  himself  to  obtain  wealth,  and 
succeeds  in  doing  so  ; and  whether  the  world  owes  more 
gratitude  to  rich  or  to  poor  men,  either  for  their  moral  in- 
fluence upon  it,  or  for  chief  goods,  discoveries,  and  practical 
advancements.  I may,  however,  anticipate  future  conclusion 
so  far  as  to  state  that  in  a community  regulated  only  by  laws 
of  demand  and  supply,  and  protected  from  open  violence,  the 
persons  who  become  rich  are,  generally  speaking,  industrious, 
resolute,  proud,  covetous,  prompt,  methodical,  sensible,  un- 
imaginative, insensitive,  and  ignorant.  The  persons  who  re- 
main poor  are  the  entirely  foolish,  the  entirely  wise,*  the  idle, 
the  reckless,  the  humble,  the  thoughtful,  the  dull,  the  imag- 
inative, the  sensitive,  the  well-informed,  the  improvident,  the 
irregularly  and  impulsively  wicked,  the  clumsy  knave,  the 
open  thief,  and  the  entirely  merciful,  just,  and  godly  person. 

Thus  far  then  of  wealth.  Next,  we  have  to  ascertain  the 

* “d  Zev?  Svttov  irei/eTai.” — Arist.  Plut.  582.  It  would  but  weaken 
the  grand  words  to  lean  on  the  preceding  ones  : — “ or t rod  riAodrov  Trapeze 
flih.  iovas,  auSpas,  nal  t?V  yv(!)pr}v,  nal  t)]v  i84av.” 


AD  VALOREM. 


20 1 


nature  of  Price  ; that  is  to  say,  of  exchange  value,  and  its  ex« 
pression  by  currencies. 

Note  first,  of  exchange,  there  can  be  no  profit  in  it.  It  is 
only  in  labour  there  can  be  profit — that  is  to  say  a “ making 
in  advance,5’ or ‘‘making  in  favour  of”  (from  proficio).  In 
exchange,  there  is  only  advantage,  i.e.  a bringing  of  vantage 
or  power  to  the  exchanging  persons.  Thus,  one  man,  by 
sowing  and  reaping,  turns  one  measure  of  corn  into  two 
measures.  That  is  Profit.  Another  by  digging  and  forging, 
turns  one  spade  into  two  spades.  That  is  Profit.  But  the 
man  who  has  two  measures  of  corn  wants  sometimes  to  dig  ; 
and  the  man  who  has  two  spades  wants  sometimes  to  eat : — 
They  exchange  the  gained  grain  for  the  gained  tool  ; and 
both  are  the  better  for  the  exchange  ; but  though  there  is 
much  advantage  in  the  transaction,  there  is  no  profit. 
Nothing  is  constructed  or  produced.  Only  that  which  had 
been  before  constructed  is  given  to  the  person  by  whom  it 
can  be  used.  If  labour  is  necessary  to  effect  the  exchange, 
that  labour  is  in  reality  involved  in  the  production,  and,  like 
all  other  labour,  bears  profit.  Whatever  number  of  men  are 
concerned  in  the  manufacture,  or  in  the  conveyance,  have 
share  in  the  profit ; but  neither  the  manufacture  nor  the  con- 
veyance are  the  exchange,  and  in  the  exchange  itself  there  is 
no  profit. 

There  may,  howrever,  be  acquisition,  which  is  a very  differ- 
ent thing.  If,  in  the  exchange,  one  man  is  able  to  give  what 
cost  him  little  labour  for  what  has  cost  the  other  much,  he 
“ acquires  ” a certain  quantity  of  the  produce  of  the  other’s 
labour.  And  precisely  what  he  acquires,  the  other  loses.  In 
mercantile  language,  the  person  who  thus  acquires  is  com- 
monly said  to  have  “ made  a profit ; ” and  I believe  that  many 
of  our  merchants  are  seriously  under  the  impression  that  it 
is  possible  for  everybody,  somehow",  to  make  a profit  in  this 
manner.  Whereas,  by  the  unfortunate  constitution  of  the 
world  we  live  in,  the  laws  both  of  matter  and  motion  have 
quite  rigorously  forbidden  universal  acquisition  of  this  kind. 
Profit,  or  material  gain,  is  attainable  only  by  construction  or 
by  discovery  ; not  by  exchange.  Whenever  material  gain  fob 


£08 


AD  VALOREM . 


lows  exchange,  for  every  plus  there  is  a precisely  equal  minus. 

Unhappily  for  the  progress  of  the  science  of  Political 
Economy,  the  plus  quantities,  or, — if  I may  be  allowed  to  coin 
an  awkward  plural— the  pluses,  make  a very  positive  and 
venerable  appearance  in  the  world,  so  that  every  one  is  eager 
to  learn  the  science  which  produces  results  so  magnificent; 
whereas  the  minuses  have,  on  the  other  hand,  a tendency  to 
retire  into  back  streets,  and  other  places  of  shade, — or  even  to 
get  themselves  wholly  and  finally  put  out  of  sight  in  graves  : 
which  renders  the  algebra  of  this  science  peculiar,  and  dif- 
ficultly legible  : a large  number  of  its  negative  signs  being 
written  by  the  account-keeper  in  a kind  of  red  ink,  which 
starvation  thins,  and  makes  strangely  pale,  or  even  quite  in- 
visible ink,  for  the  present. 

The  Science  of  Exchange,  or,  as  I hear  it  has  been  pro- 
posed to-  call  it,  of  “ Catallactics,”  considered  as  one  of  gain, 
is,  therefore,  simply  nugatory ; but  considered  as  one  of  ac- 
quisition, it  is  a very  curious  science,  differing  in  its  data  and 
basis  from  every  other  science  known.  Thus  : — If  I can  ex- 
change a needle  with  a savage  for  a diamond,  my  power  of 
doing  so  depends  either  on  the  savage’s  ignorance  of  social 
arrangements  in  Europe,  or  on  his  want  of  power  to  take  ad- 
vantage of  them,  by  selling  the  diamond  to  any  one  else  for 
more  needles.  If,  farther,  I make  the  bargain  as  completely 
advantageous  to  myself  as  possible,  by  giving  to  the  savage  a 
needle  with  no  eye  in  it  (reaching,  thus,  a sufficiently  satisfac- 
tory type  of  the  perfect  operation  of  catallactic  science),  the 
advantage  to  me  in  the  entire  transaction  depends  wholly 
upon  the  ignorance,  powerlessness,  or  heedlessness  of  the  per- 
son dealt  with.  Do  away  with  these,  and  catallactic  advantage 
becomes  impossible.  So  far,  therefore,  as  the  science  of  ex- 
change relates  to  the  advantage  of  one  of  the  exchanging  per- 
sons only,  it  is  founded  on  the  ignorance  or  incapacity  of  the 
opposite  person.  Where  these  vanish,  it  also  vanishes.  It  is 
therefore  a science  founded  on  nescience,  and  an  art  founded 
on  artlessness.  But  all  other  sciences  and  arts,  except  this, 
have  for  their  object  the  doing  away  -with  their  opposite  nes- 
cience and  artlessness.  This  science,  alone  of  sciences,  must^ 


AD  VALOREM, 


209 


by  all  available  means,  promulgate  and  prolong  its  opposite 
nescience ; otherwise  the  science  itself  is  impossible.  It  is,  there- 
fore, peculiarly  and  alone,  the  science  of  darkness  ; probably  a 
bastard  science — not  by  any  means  a divina  soientia,  but  one 
begotten  of  another  father,  that  father  who,  advising  his  chil- 
dren to  turn  stones  into  bread,  is  himself  employed  in  turn ; 
ing  bread  into  stones,  and  who,  if  you  ask  a fish  of  him  (fish 
not  being  producible  on  his  estate),  can  but  give  you  a ser- 
pent. 

The  general  law,  then,  respecting  just  or  economical  ex- 
change, is  simply  this : — There  must  be  advantage  on  both 
sides  (or  if  only  advantage  on  one,  at  least  no  disadvantage 
on  the  other)  to  the  persons  exchanging ; and  just  payment 
for  his  time,  intelligence,  and  labour,  to  any  intermediate 
person  effecting  the  transaction  (commonly  called  a merchant) : 
and  whatever  advantage  there  is  on  either  side,  and  whatever 
pay  is  given  to  the  intermediate  person,  should  be  thoroughly 
known  to  all  concerned.  All  attempt  at  concealment  implies 
some  practice  of  the  opposite,  or  undivine  science,  founded 
on  nescience.  Whence  another  saying  of  the  Jew  merchant’s 
— “ As  a nail  between  the  stone  joints,  so  doth  sin  stick  fast 
between  buying  and  selling.”  Which  peculiar  riveting  of 
stone  and  timber,  in  men’s  dealings  with  each  other,  is  again 
set  forth  in  the  house  which  was  to  be  destroyed — timber  and 
stones  together — when  Zechariah’s  roll  (more  probably  “curved 
sword  ”)  flew  over  it : “ the  curse  that  goeth  forth  over  all  the 
earth  upon  every  one  that  stealetli  and  holdeth  himself  guilt- 
less,” instantly  followed  by  the  vision  of  the  Great  Measure  ; 
— the  measure  “ of  the  injustice  of  them  in  all  the  earth  ” 
(avTT)  rj  dSiKi'a  avrCjv  ev  7r acrrj  rrj  yfj),  with  the  weight  of  lead 
for  its  lid,  and  the  woman,  the  spirit  of  wickedness,  within  it ; 
— that  is  to  say,  Wickedness  hidden  by  Dulness,  and  formal- 
ized, outwardly,  into  ponderously  established  eruelt}\  “It 
shall  be  set  upon  its  own  base  in  the  land  of  Babel.”  * 

I have  hitherto  carefully  restricted  myself,  in  speaking  of 
exchange,  to  the  use  of  the  term  “ advantage  ; ” but  that  term 
includes  two  ideas ; the  advantage,  namely,  of  getting  what 
* Zech.  v.  11.  See  note  on  the  passage,  at  page  120. 


210 


AD  VALOREM. 


we  need , and  that  of  getting  what  wre  wish  for.  Three-fourth3 
of  the  demands  existing  in  the  world  are  romantic  ; founded 
on  visions,  idealisms,  hopes,  and  affections  ; and  the  regula- 
tion of  the  purse  is,  in  its  essence,  regulation  of  the  imagina- 
tion and  the  heart.  Hence,  the  right  discussion  of  the  nature 
of  price  is  a very  high  metaphysical  and  physical  problem ; 
sometimes  to  be  solved  only  in  a passionate  manner,  as  by 
David  in  his  counting  the  price  of  the  water  of  the  well  by 
the  gate  of  Bethlehem  ; but  its  first  conditions  -are  the  fol- 
lowing : — The  price  of  anything  is  the  quantity  of  labour 
given  by  the -person  desiring  it,  in  order  to  obtain  possession 
of  it.  This  price  depends  on  four  variable  quantities.  A. 
The  quantity  of  wish  the  purchaser  has  for  the  thing  ; op- 
posed to  a,  the  quantity  of  wish  the  seller  has  to  keep  it. 
B.  The  quantity  of  labour  the  purchaser  can  afford,  to  obtain 
the  thing  ; opposed  to  j3,  the  quantity  of  labour  the  seller  can 
afford,  to  keep  it.  These  quantities  are  operative  only  in 
excess  ; i.e.  the  quantity  of  wish  (H)  means  the  quantity  of 
wish  for  this  thing,  above  wish  for  other  things  ; and  the 
quantity  of  work  (B)  means  the  quantity  which  can  be  spared 
to  get  this  thing  from  the  quantity  needed  to  get  other 
things. 

Phenomena  of  price,  therefore,  are  intensely  complex,  curi- 
ous, and  interesting — too  complex,  however,  to  be  examined 
yet ; every  one  of  them,  when  traced  far  enough,  showing  it- 
self at  last  as  a part  of  the  bargain  of  the  Poor  of  the  Flock 
(or  “ flock  of  slaughter  ”),  “If  ye  think  good  give  me  my  price, 
and  if  not,  forbear” — Zech.  xi.  12  ; but  as  the  price  of  every- 
thing is  to  be  calculated  finally  in  labour,  it  is  necessary  to 
define  the  nature  of  that  standard. 

Labour  is  the  contest  of  the  life  of  man  with  an  opposite  ■, 
— the  term  “ life  ” including  his  intellect,  soul,  and  physical 
power,  contending  with  question,  difficulty,  trial,  or  material 
force. 

Labour  is  of  a higher  or  lower  order,  as  it  includes  more 
or  fewer  of  the  elements  of  life  : and  labour  of  good  quality, 
in  any  kind,  includes  always  as  much  intellect  and  feeling  as 
will  fully  and  harmoniously  regulate  the  physical  force. 


AD  VALOREM. 


211 


In  speaking  of  the  value  and  price  of  labour,  it  is  neces- 
sary always  to  understand  labour  of  a given  rank  and  quality, 
as  we  should  speak  of  gold  or  silver  of  a given  standard. 
Bad,  (that  is,  heartless,  inexperienced,  or  senseless)  labour 
cannot  be  valued  ; it  is  like  gold  of  uncertain  alloy,  or  flawed 
iron.* 

The  quality  and  kind  of  labour  being  given,  its  value,  like 
that  of  all  other  valuable  things,  is  invariable.  But  the 
quantity  of  it  which  must  be  given  for  other  things  is  varia- 
ble ; and  in  estimating  this  variation,  the  price  of  other  things 
must  always  be  counted  by  the  quantity  of  labour ; not  the 
price  of  labour  by  the  quantity  of  other  things. 

Thus,  if  we  want  to  plant  an  apple  sapling  in  rocky  ground, 
it  may  take  two  hours’  work  ; in  soft  ground,  perhaps  only 
half  an  hour.  Grant  the  soil  equally  good  for  the  tree  in 
each  case.  Then  the  value  of  the  sapling  planted  by  two 
hours’  work  is  nowise  greater  than  that  of  the  sapling  planted 
in  half  an  hour.  One  will  bear  no  more  fruit  than  the  other. 
Also,  one  half-hour  of  work  is  as  valuable  as  another  half- 
hour  ; nevertheless  the  one  sapling  has  cost  four  such  pieces 
of  work,  the  other  only  one.  Now  the  proper  statement  of 
this  fact  is,  not  that  the  labour  on  the  hard  ground  is  cheaper 
than  on  the  soft ; but  that  the  tree  is  dearer.  The  exchange 
value  may,  or  may  not,  afterwards  depend  on  this  fact.  If 
other  people  have  plenty  of  soft  ground  to  plant  in,  they  will 
take  no  cognizance  of  our  two  hours’  labour,  in  the  price  they 
will  offer  for  the  plant  on  the  rock.  And  if,  through  want  of 

* Labour  which  is  entirely  good  of  its  kind,  that  is  to  say,  effective, 
or  efficient,  the  Greeks  called  “ weighable,”  or  &£ios,  translated  usually 
“ worthy,”  and  because  thus  substantial  and  true,  they  called  its  price 
7 ifj.'fj)  the  “honourable  estimate”  of  it  (honorarium)  : this  word  being 
founded  on  their  conception  of  true  labour  as  a divine  thing,  to  be  hon- 
oured with  the  kind  of  honour  given  to  the  gods  ; whereas  the  price  of 
false  labour,  or  of  that  which  led  away  from  life,  was  to  be,  not  honour, 
but  vengeance  ; for  which  they  reserved  another  word,  attributing  the 
exaction  of  such  price  to  a peculiar  goddess,  called  Tisiphone,  the 
“ requiter  (or  quittance-taker)  of  death  ; ” a person  versed  in  the  high- 
est branches  of  arithmetic,  and  punctual  in  her  habits  ; with  whom  ao* 
counts  current  have  been  opened  also  in  modern  days. 


212 


AD  VALOREM. 


sufficient  botanical  science,  we  have  planted  an  upas-tree  in? 
stead  of  an  apple,  the  exchange-value  will  be  a negative  quan« 
tity  ; still  less  proportionate  to  the  labour  expended. 

What  is  commonly  called  cheapness  of  labour,  signifies, 
therefore,  in  reality,  that  many  obstacles  have  to  be  over- 
come by  it ; so  that  much  labour  is  required  to  produce  a 
small  result.  But  this  should  never  be  spoken  of  as  cheap- 
ness of  labour,  but  as  dearness  of  the  object  wrought  for. 
It  would  be  just  as  rational  to  say  that  walking  was  cheap, 
because  we  had  ten  miles  to  walk  home  to  our  dinner,  as 
that  labour  was  cheap,  because  we  had  to  work  ten  hours 
to  earn  it. 

The  last  word  which  we  have  to  define  is  “ Production.” 

I have  hitherto  spoken  of  all  labour  as  profitable  ; because 
it  is  impossible  to  consider  under  one  head  the  quality  or 
value  of  labour,  and  its  aim.  But  labour,  of  the  best  quality 
may  be  various  in  aim.  It  may  be  either  constructive  (“  gath- 
ering,” from  con  and  struo),  as  agriculture  ; nugatory,  as 
jewel-cutting ; or  destructive  (“  scattering,”  from  de  and 
struo),  as  war.  It  is  not,  however,  always  easy  to  prove  labour, 
apparently  nugatory,  to  be  actually  so ; * generally,  the  for- 
mula holds  good  : “he  that  gathereth  not,  scattereth;”  thus, 
the  jeweller’s  art  is  probably  very  harmful  in  its  ministering 
to  a clums}r  and  inelegant  pride.  So  that,  finally,  I believe 
nearly  all  labour  may  be  shortly  divided  into  positive  and  nega- 
tive labour : positive,  that  which  produces  life  ; negative,  that 
which  produces  death ; the  most  directly  negative  labour  being 
murder,  and  the  most  directly  positive,  the  bearing  and  rearing 
of  children  ; so  that  in  the  precise  degree  which  murder  is 

* The  most  accurately  nugatory  labour  is,  perhaps,  that  of  which  not 
enough  is  given  to  answer  a purpose  effectually,  and  which,  therefore, 
has  all  to  be  clone  over  again  Also,  labour  which  fails  of  effect  through 
non-co-operation.  The  cure  of  a little  village  near  Bellinzona,  to  whom 
I had  expressed  wonder  that  the  peasants  allowed  the  Ticino  to  flood 
their  fields,  told  me  that  they  would  not  join  to  build  an  effectual  em- 
bankment high  up  the  valley,  because  everybody  said  ‘that  would  help 
his  neighbours  as  much  as  himself.”  So  every  proprietor  built  a bit  of 
low  embankment  about  his  own  field  ; and  the  Ticino,  as  soon  as  it  had 
a mind,  swept  away  and  swallowed  all  up  together. 


AD  VALOREM. 


213 


hateful,  on  the  negative  side  of  idleness,  in  that  exact  degree 
child-rearing*  is  admirable,  on  the  positive  side  of  idleness. 
For  which  reason,  and  because  of  the  honour  that  there  is  in 
rearing*  children,  while  the  wife  is  said  to  be  as  the  vine  (for 
cheering),  the  children  are  as  the  olive-branch,  for  praise  ; nor 
for  praise  only,  but  for  peace  (because  large  families  can  only 
be  reared  in  times  of  peace)  : though  since,  in  their  spreading 
and  voyaging  in  various  directions,  they  distribute  strength, 
they  are,  to  the  home  strength,  as  arrows  in  the  hand  of  a 
giant — striking  here  and  there,  far  away. 

Labour  being  thus  various  in  its  result,  the  prosperity  of 
any  nation  is  in  exact  proportion  to  the  quantity  of  labour 
which  it  spends  in  obtaining  and  employing  means  of  life. 
Observe, — I say,  obtaining  and  employing  ; that  is  to  say,  not 
merely  wisely  producing,  but  wisely  distributing  and  con- 
suming. Economists  usually  speak  as  if  there  were  no  good 
in  consumption  absolute. f So  far  from  this  being  so,  con- 
sumption absolute  is  the  end,  crown,  and  perfection  of  pro- 
duction ; and  wise  consumption  is  a far  more  difficult  art  than 
wise  production.  Twenty  people  can  gain  money  for  one 
who  can  use  it  ; and  the  vital  question,  for  individual  and  for 
nation,  is,  never  “how  much  do  they  make?”  but  “to  what 
purpose  do  they  spend  ? ” 

The  reader  may,  perhaps,  have  been  surprised  at  the  slight 
reference  I have  hitherto  made  to  “ capital,”  and  its  functions. 
It  is  here  the  place  to  define  them. 

Capital  signifies  “ head,  or  source,  or  root  material  ” — it  is 
material  by  which  some  derivative  or  secondary  good,  is  pro- 

* Observe,  I say,  “ rearing,”  not  “begetting.”  The  praise  is  in  the 
i seventh  season,  not  in  ffvopr,T6s , nor  in  <£urAa;o,  but  in  dir&pa.  It  is 
strange  that  men  always  praise  enthusiastically  any  person  who,  by  a 
momentary  exertion,  saves  a life  ; but  praise  very  hesitatingly  a person 
who,  by  exertion  and  self-denial  prolonged  through  years,  creates  one. 
We  give  the  crown  ‘ ‘ ob  civem  servatum  — why  not  ‘ ‘ oh  civem.  natum  ? ” 
Born,  I mean,  to  the  full,  in  soul  as  well  as  body.  England  has  oak 
: enough,  I think,  for  both  chaplets 

f When  Mr.  Mill  speaks  of  productiv)  consumption,  he  only  means 
I consumption  which  results  in  increase  of  capital,  or  material  wealth 
j See  I.  iii,  4,  and  I.  iii.  5. 


214 


AD  VALOREM . 


duced.  It  is  only  capital  proper  (caput  vivum,  not  capu^i 
mortuum)  when  it  is  thus  producing  something  different 
from  itself.  It  is  a root,  which  does  not  enter  into  vital  func- 
tion till  it  produces  something  else  than  a root ; namely,  fruit.. 
That  fruit  will  in  time  again  produce  roots  ; and  so  all  living 
capital  issues  in  reproduction  of  capital ; but  capital  which 
produces  nothing  but  capital  is  only  root  producing  root ; 
bulb  issuing  in  bulb,  never  in  tulip  ; seed  issuing  in  seed, 
never  in  bread.  The  Political  Economy  of  Europe  has  hither- 
to devoted  itself  wholly  to  the  multiplication,  or  (less  even) 
the  aggregation,  of  bulbs.  It  never  saw  nor  conceived  such  a 
thing  as  a tulip.  Nay,  boiled  bulbs  they  might  have  been 
—glass  bulbs — Prince  Rupert’s  drops,  consummated  in  pow- 
der (well,  if  it  were  glass-powder  and  not  gunpowder),  for 
any  end  or  meaning  the  economists  had  in  defining  the  laws 
of  aggregation.  We  will  try  and  get  a clearer  notion  of 
them. 

The  best  and  simplest  general  type  of  capital  is  a W’ell-made 
ploughshare.  Now,  if  that  ploughshare  did  nothing  but  be- 
get other  ploughshares,  in  a polypous  manner, — however  the 
great  cluster  of  pofypous  plough  might  glitter  in  the  sun,  it 
would  have  lost  its  function  of  capital.  It  becomes  true  capi- 
tal only  by  another  hind  of  splendour, — when  it  is  seen, 
“ splendescere  sulco,”  to  grow  bright  in  the  furrow  ; rather 
with  diminution  of  its  substance,  than  addition,  by  the  noble 
friction.  And  the  true  home  question,  to  every  capitalist  and 
to  every  nation,  is  not,  “how  many  ploughs  have  you  ? ” — but, 
“ where  are  your  furrows  ? ” not — “ how  quickly  will  this  capi- 
tal reproduce  itself?” — but,  “what  will  it  do  during  repro- 
duction ? ” What  substance  will  it  furnish,  good  for  life  ? what 
work  construct,  protective  of  life  ? if  none,  its  own  reproduc- 
tion is  useless — if  worse  than  none, — (for  capital  may  destroy 
life  as  well  as  support  it),  its  own  reproduction  is  worse  than 
useless ; it  is  merely  an  advance  from  Tisiphone,  on  mortgage 
—not  a profit  by  any  means. 

Not  a profit,  as  the  ancients  truly  saw,  and  showed  in  the 
type  of  Ixion  ; for  capital  is  the  head,  or  fountain  head,  of 
wealth — the  “ well-head  ” of  wealth,  as  the  clouds  are  the  well 


AD  VALOREM. 


215 


heads  of  rain  : but  when  clouds  are  without  water,  and  only 
beget  clouds,  they  issue  in  wrath  at  last,  instead  of  rain,  and 
in  lightning  instead  of  harvest ; whence  Ixion  is  said  first  to 
have  invited  his  guests  to  a banquet,  and  then  made  them  fall 
into  a pit  filled  with  fire  ; which  is  the  type  of  the  temptation 
of  riches  issuing  in  imprisoned  torment, — torment  in  a pit, 
(as  also  Demas’  silver  mine,)  after  which,  to  show  the  rage 
of  riches  passing  from  lust  of  pleasure  to  lust  of  power,  yet 
power  not  truly  understood,  Ixion  is  said  to  have  desired 
Juno,  and  instead,  embracing  a cloud  (or  phantasm),  to  have 
begotten  the  Centaurs ; the  power  of  mere  wealth  being,  in 
itself,  as  the  embrace  of  a shadow, — comfortless  (so  also 
“ Ephraim  feedeth  on  wind  and  followth  after  the  east  wind  ; ” 
or ‘'that  which  is  not” — Prov.  xxiii.  5;  and  again  Dante’s 
Geryon,  the  type  of  avaricious  fraud,  as  he  flies,  gathers  the 
air  up  with  retractile  claws,— “ l’aer  a se  raccolse,”  *)  but  in 
its  offspring,  a mingling  of  the  brutal  with  the  human  nature  : 
human  in  sagacity — using  both  intellect  and  arrow  ; but  bru- 
tal in  its  body  and  hoof,  for  consuming  and  trampling  down. 
For  which  sin  Ixion  is  at  last  bound  upon  a wheel — fiery  and 
toothed,  and  rolling  perpetually  in  the  air  ; — the  type  of  hu- 
man labour  when  selfish  and  fruitless  (kept  far  into  the  mid- 
dle ages  in  their  wheel  of  fortune) ; the  wheel  which  has  in  it 
no  breath  or  spirit,  but  is  whirled  by  chance  only  ; whereas  of 

* So  also  in  the  vision  of  the  women  hearing  the  ephali,  before  quoted, 
“the  wind  was  in  their  wings,”  not  wings  “ of  a stork,”  as  in  our  ver- 
sion ; but  “ milxi”  of  a kite,  in  the  Vulgate,  or  perhaps  more  accurately 
still  in  the  Septuagint,  “hoopoe,”  a bird  connected  typically  with 
the  power  of  riches  by  many  traditions,  of  which  that  of  its  petition  for 
a crest  of  gold  is  perhaps  the  most  interesting.  The  ‘ * Birds  ” of  Aristoph- 
anes, in  which  its  part  is  principal,  are  full  of  them  ; note  especially 
the  “fortification  of  the  air  with  baked  bricks,  like  Babylon,”  1.  550  ■, 
and,  again,  compare  the  Plutus  of  Dante,  who  (to  show  the  influence  of 
riches  in  destroying  the  reason)  is  the  only  one  of  the  powers  of  the  In- 
ferno who  cannot  speak  intelligibly  ; and  also  the  cowardliest ; he  is 
not  merely  quelled  or  restrained,  but  literally  “ collapses  ” at  a word  ; 
the  sudden  and  helpless  operation  of  mercantile  panic  being  all  told  in 
the  brief  metaphor,  “as  the  sails,  swollen  with  the  wind,  fall,  when 
the  mast  breaks.  ” 


216 


AD  VALOREM. 


all  true  work  the  Ezekiel  vision  is  true,  that  the  spirit  of  the 
living  creature  is  in  the  wheels,  and  where  the  angels  go,  the 
wheels  go  by  them  ; but  move  no  otherwise. 

This  being  the  real  nature  of  capital,  it  follows  that  there 
are  two  kinds  of  true  production,  always  going  on  in  an  active 
State  ; one  of  seed,  and  one  of  food  or  production  for  the 
Ground,  and  for  the  Mouth  ; both  of  which  are  by  covetous 
persons  thought  to  be  production  only  for  the  granary  ; where- 
as the  function  of  the  granary  is  but  intermediate  and  conser- 
vative, fulfilled  in  distribution ; else  it  ends  in  nothing  but 
mildew,  and  nourishment  of  rats  and  worms.  And  since  pro- 
duction for  the  Ground  is  only  useful  with  future  hope  of  har- 
vest, all  essential  production  is  for  the  Mouth  ; and  is  finally 
measured  by  the  mouth  ; hence,  as  I said  above,  consumption 
is  the  crown  of  production  ; and  the  wealth  of  a nation  is  only 
to  be  estimated  by  what  it  consumes. 

The  want  of  any  clear  sight  of  this  fact  is  the  capital  error, 
issuing  in  rich  interest  and  revenue  of  error,  among  the  po- 
litical economists.  Their  minds  are  continually  set  on  money- 
gain,  not  on  mouth  gain  ; and  they  fall  into  every  sort  of  net 
and  snare,  dazzled  by  the  coin-glitter  as  birds  by  the  fowler’s 
glass  ; or  rather  (for  there  is  not  much  else  like  birds  in  them) 
they  are  like  children  trying  to  jump  on  the  heads  of  their  own 
shadows  ; the  money-gain  being  only  the  shadow  of  the  true 
gain,  which  is  humanity. 

The  final  object  of  political  economy,  therefore,  is  to  get 
good  method  of  consumption,  and  great  quantity  of  consump- 
tion : in  other  words,  to  use  everything,  and  to  use  it  nobly  , 
whether  it  be  substance,  sendee,  or  service  perfecting  sub- 
stance. The  most  curious  error  in  Mr.  Mill’s  entire  work 
(provided  for  him  originally  by  Bicardo),  is  his  endeavour  to 
distinguish  between  direct  and  indirect  sendee,  and  consequent 
assertion  that  a demand  for  commodities  is  not  demand  for 
labour  (I.  v.  9,  et  seq.).  He  distinguishes  between  labourers 
employed  to  lay  out  pleasure  grounds,  and  to  manufacture 
velvet ; declaring  that  it  makes  material  difference  to  the  la< 
bouring  classes  in  which  of  these  two  ways  a capitalist  spends 
his  money  ; because  the  employment  of  the  gardeners  is  a do- 


AD  VALOREM. 


217 


maiH  for  labour,  but  the  purchase  of  velvet  is  not.*  Erro? 
colossal  as  well  as  strange.  It  will,  indeed,  make  a difference 
to  the  labourer  whether  he  bid  him  swing  his  scythe  in  the 
spring  winds,  or  drive  the  loom  in  pestilential  air  ; but,  so  far 
as  his  pocket  is  concerned,  it  makes  to  him  absolutely  no  dif 
ferenee  whether  we  order  him  to  make  green  velvet,  with  seed 
and  a scythe,  or  red  velvet,  with  silk  and  scissors.  Neither 
does  it  anywise  concern  him  whether,  when  the  velvet  is  made, 
we  consume  it  by  walking  on  it,  or  wearing  it,  so  long  ns  our 
consumption  of  it  is  wholly  selfish.  But  if  our  consumption  is 
to  be  in  anywise  unselfish,  not  only  our  mode  of  consuming  the 
articles  we  require  interests  him,  but  also  the  kind  of  article  we 
require  with  a view  to  consumption.  As  thus  (returning  for  a 
moment  to  Mr.  Mill’s  great  hardware  theory  f ) : it  matters,  so 
far  as  the  labourer’s  immediate  profit  is  concerned,  not  an  iron 
filing  whether  I employ  him  in  growing  a peach,  or  forging  a 
bombshell ; but  my  probable  mode  of  consumption  of  those 
articles  matters  seriously.  Admit  that  it  is  to  be  in  both 
cases  “ unselfish,”  and  the  difference,  to  him,  is  final,  whether 
when  his  child  is  ill,  I walk  it  into  his  cottage  and  give  it  the 

* The  value  of  raw  material,  which  has,  indeed,  to  he  deducted  from 
the  price  of  the  labour,  is  not  contemplated  in  the  passages  referred  to, 
Mr.  Mill  having  fallen  into  the  mistake  solely  by  pursuing  the  collateral 
results  of  the  payment  of  wages  to  middlemen.  He  says — “ The  eon- 
Burner  does  not,  with  his  own  funds,  pay  the  weaver  for  his  day’s  work.5’ 
Fardon  me  ; the  consumer  of  the  velvet  pays  the  weaver  with  his  own 
funds  as  much  as  he  pays  the  gardener.  He  pays,  probably,  an  inter- 
mediate ship-owner,  velvet  merchant,  and  shopman  ; pays  carriage 
money,  shop  rent,  damage  money,  time  money,  and  care  money  ; ail 
these  are  above  and  beside  the  velvet  price  (just  as  the  wages  of  a head 
gardener  would  be  above  the  grass  price) ; but  the  velvet  is  as  much 
produced  by  the  consumer’s  capital,  though  he  does  not  pay  for  it  tiii 
six  months  after  production,  as  the  grass  is  produced  by  his  capital, 
though  he  does  not  pay  the  man  who  mowed  and  rolled  it  on  Monday, 
till  Saturday  afternoon.  I do  not  know  if  Mr.  Mill’s  conclusion,  — “the 
capital  cannot  be  dispensed  with,  tlie  purchasers  can  ” (p.  98),  has  yet 
been  reduced  to  practice  in  the  City  on  any  large  scale. 

f Which,  observe,  is  the  precise  opposite  of  the  one  under  examina- 
tion. The  hardware  theory  required  us  to  discharge  our  gardeners  and 
engage  manufacturers  ; the  velvet  theory  requires  us  to  discharge  our 
manufacturers  and  engage  gardener* 

a 


218 


AD  VALOREM. 


peach,  or  drop  the  shell  down  his  chimney,  and  blow  his  roof 
off. 

The  worst  of  it,  for  the  peasant,  is,  that  the  capitalist’s  con< 
sumption  of  the  peach  is  apt  to  be  selfish,  and  of  the  shell, 
distributive  ; * but,  in  all  cases,  this  is  the  broad  and  general 
fact,  that  on  due  cataliactic  commercial  principles,  somebody’s 
roof  must  go  off  in  fulfilment  of  the  bomb’s  destiny.  You 
may  grow  for  your  neighbour,  at  your  liking,  grapes  or  grape- 
shot  ; he  will  also,  catallactically,  grow  grapes  or  grapeshot 
for-  you,  and  you  will  each  reap  what  you  have  sown. 

It  is,  therefore,  the  manner  and  issue  of  consumption  which 
are  the  real  tests  of  production.  Production  does  not  con- 
sist in  things  laboriously  made,  but  in  things  serviceably  con- 
sumable ; and  the  question  for  the  nation  is  not  how  much 
labour  it  employs,  but  how  much  life  it  produces.  For  as 
consumption  is  the  end  and  aim  of  production,  so  life  is  the 
end  and  aim  of  consumption. 

I left  this  question  to  the  reader’s  thought  two  months 
ago,  choosing  rather  that  he  should  work  it  out  for  himself 
than  have  it  sharply  stated  to  him.  But  now,  the  ground 
being  sufficiently  broken  (and  the  details  into  which  the  sev- 

* It  is  one  very  awful  form  of  the  operation  of  wealth  in  Europe  that 
it  is  entirely  capitalists'  wealth  which  supports  unjust  wars.  Just  wars 
do  not  need  so  much  money  to  support  them  ; for  most  of  the  men  who 
wage  such,  wage  them  gratis  ; but  for  an  unjust  war,  men’s  bodies  and 
souls  have  both  to  be  bought;  and  the  best  tools  of  war  for  them  be- 
sides ; which  makes  such  war  costly  to  the  maximum  ; not  to  speak  of 
the  cost  of  base  fear,  and  angry  suspicion,  between  nations  which  have 
not  grace  nor  honesty  enough  in  all  their  multitudes  to  buy  an  hour’s 
peace  of  mind  with  : as,  at  present,  France  and  England,  purchasing  of 
each  other  ten  millions  sterling  worth  of  consternation  annually,  (a  re- 
markably light  crop,  half  thorns  and  half  aspen  leaves, — sown,  reaped, 
and  granaried  by  the  “science”  of  the  modern  political  economist, 
teaching  covetousness  instead  of  truth.)  And  all  unjust  war  being  sup- 
portable, if  not  by  pillage  of  the  enemy,  only  by  loans  from  capitalists, 
these  loans  are  repaid  by  subsequent  taxation  of  the  people,  who  appear 
to  have  no  will  in  the  matter,  the  capitalists’  will  being  the  primary  root 
of  the  war  : but  its  real  root  is  the  covetousness  of  the  whole  nation, 
rendering  it  incapable  of  faith,  frankness,  or  justice,  and  bringing 
about,  therefore,  in  due  time,  his  own  separate  loss  and  punishment  to 
each  person. 


jtD  VALOREM. 


219 


eral  questions,  liere  opened,  must  lead  us,  being  too  complex 
for  discussion  in  the  pages  of  a periodical,  so  that  I must 
pursue  them  elsewhere),  I desire,  in  closing  the  series  of  in* 
troductory  papers,  to  leave  this  one  great  fact  clearly  stated. 
There  is  no  Wealth  but  Life.  Life,  including  all  its  pow- 
ers of  love,  of  joy,  and  of  admiration.  That  country  is  the 
richest  which  nourishes  the  greatest  number  of  noble  and 
happy  human  beings  ; that  man  is  richest  who,  having  per- 
fected the  functions  of  his  own  life  to  the  utmost,  has  also  the 
widest  helpful  influence,  both  personal,  and  by  means  of  his 
possessions,  over  the  lives  of  others. 

A strange  political  economy  ; the  only  one,  nevertheless, 
that  ever  was  or  can  be  : all  political  economy  founded  on 
self-interest  * being  but  the  fulfilment  of  that  which  once 
brought  schism  into  the  Policy  of  angels,  and  ruin  into  the 
Economy  of  Heaven. 

“ The  greatest  number  of  human  beings  noble  and  happy.” 
But  is  the  nobleness  consistent  writh  the  number  ? Yes,  not 
only  consistent  with  it,  but  essential  to  it.  The  maximum  of 
life  can  only  be  reached  by  the  maximum  of  virtue.  In  this 
respect  the  law  of  human  population  differs  wholly  from  that 
of  animal  life.  The  multiplication  of  animals  is  checked  only 
by  want  of  food,  and  by  the  hostility  of  races  ; the  population 
of  the  gnat  is  restrained  by  the  hunger  of  the  swallow,  and 
that  of  the  swallow  by  the  scarcity  of  gnats.  Man,  considered 
as  an  animal,  is  indeed  limited  by  the  same  laws  ; hunger,  or 
plague,  or  war,  are  the  necessary  and  only  restraints  upon  his 
increase, — effectual  restraints  hitherto, — his  principal  study 
having  been  how  most  swiftly  to  destroy  himself,  or  ravage 
his  dwelling-places,  and  his  highest  skill  directed  to  give  range 
to  the  famine,  seed  to  the  plague,  and  sw^ay  to  the  sword. 
But,  considered  as  other  than  an  animal,  his  increase  is  not 
limited  by  these  laws.  It  is  limited  only  by  the  limits  of  his 
courage  and  his  love.  Both  of  these  have  their  bounds  ; and 

* “In  all  reasoning  about  prices,  tlie  proviso  must  be  understood, 
‘ supposing  all  parties  to  take  care  of  their  own  interest  ’ ” — Mill,  III 
l 5. 


220 


AD  VALOREM. 


ought  to  have  : his  race  has  its  bounds  also ; but  these  have 
not  yet  been  reached,  nor  will  be  reached  for  ages. 

In  all  the  ranges  of  human  thought  I know  none  so  melan- 
choly as  the  speculations  of  political  economists  on  the  popu- 
lation question.  It  is  proposed  to  better  the  condition  of  tlio 
labourer  by  giving  him  higher  wages.  “ Nay,”  says  the  econ- 
omist, “ if  you  raise  his  wages,  he  will  either  people  down  to 
the  same  point  of  misery  at  which  you  found  him,  or  drink 
your  wages  away.”  He  will.  I know  it.  Who  gave  him 
this  will  ? Suppose  it  were  your  own  son  of  whom  you  spoke, 
declaring  to  me  that  you  dared  not  take  him  into  your  firm, 
nor  even  give  him  his  just  labourer’s  wages,  because  if  you 
did,  he  would  die  of  drunkenness,  and  leave  half  a score  of 
children  to  the  parish.  “ Who  gave  your  son  these  disposi- 
tions ? ” — I should  inquire.  Has  he  them  by  inheritance  or 
by  education  ? By  one  or  other  they  must  come  ; and  as 
in  him,  so  also  in  the  poor.  Either  these  poor  are  of  a race 
essentially  different  from  ours,  and  unredeemable  (which, 
however  often  implied,  I have  heard  none  yet  openly  say),  or 
else  by  such  care  as  we  have  ourselves  received,  we  may  make 
them  continent  and  sober  as  ourselves — wise  and  dispassionate 
as  we  are — models  arduous  of  imitation.  “ But,”  it  is  an- 
swered, “they  cannot  receive  education.”  Why  not?  That 
is  precisely  the  point  at  issue.  Charitable  persons  suppose 
the  worst  fault  of  the  rich  is  to  refuse  the  people  meat ; and 
the  people  cry  for  their  meat,  kept  back  by  fraud,  to  the  Lord 
of  Multitudes.*  Alas  ! it  is  not  meat  of  which  the  refusal  is 

* James  V.  4.  Observe,  in  tliese  statements  I am  not  taking  up,  nor 
countenancing  one  whit,  the  common  socialist  idea  of  division  of  prop- 
erty ; division  of  property  is  its  destruction  ; and  with  it  the  destruction 
of  all  hope,  all  industry,  and  all  justice:  it  is  simply  chaos — a chaos 
towards  which  the  believers  in  modern  political  economy  are  fast  tend- 
ing, and  from  which  I am  striving  to  save  them.  The  rich  man  does 
not  keep  back  meat  from  the  poor  by  retaining  his  riches  ; but  by  base- 
ly using  them.  Riches  are  a form  of  strength  ; and  a strong  man  does 
not  injure  others  by  keeping  his  strength,  but  by  using  it  injuriously. 
The  socialist,  seeing  a strong  man  oppress  a weak  one,  cries  out — “Break 
the  strong  man’s  arms  ; ” but  I say,  “ Teach  him  to  use  them  to  bettei 
ourpose.’  The  fortitude  and  intelligence  which  acquire  riches  are 


AL  VALOREM. 


221 


crudest,  or  io  which  the  claim  is  valid  est.  The  life  is  mors 

than  the  meat.  The  rich  not  only  refuse,  food  to  the  poor ; 
they  refuse  wisdom  ; they  refuse  virtue ; they  refuse  salva* 
tion.  Ye  sheep  without  shepherd,  it  is  not  the  pasture  that 
has  been  shut  from  you,  but  the  presence.  Meat ! perhaps 
your  right  to  that  may  be  pleadable ; but  other  rights  have 
to  be  pleaded  first.  Claim  your  crumbs  from  the  table,  if  you 
will  ; but  claim  them  as  children,  not  as  dogs ; claim  your 
right  to  be  fed,  but  claim  more  loudly  your  right  to  be  holy, 
perfect,  and  pure. 

Strange  words  to  be  used  of  working  people:  “What! 
holy ; without  any  long  robes  nor  anointing  oils  ; these  rough- 
jacketed,  rough-worded  persons  ; set  to  nameless  and  dis- 
honoured service  ? Perfect ! — these,  with  dim  eyes  and 

cramped  limbs,  and  slowly  wakening  minds?  Pure — these, 
with  sensual  desire  and  grovelling  thought ; foul  of  body, 
and  coarse  of  soul  ? ” It  may  be  so ; nevertheless,  such  as 
they  are,  they  are  the  holiest,  perfectest,  purest  persons  the 
earth  can  at  present  show.  They  may  be  what  you  have  said ; 
but  if  so,  they  yet  are  holier  than  we,  who  have  left  them 
thus. 

But  what  can  be  done  for  them  ? Who  can  clothe — who 
teach — who  restrain  their  multitudes  ? What  end  can  there 
be  for  them  at  last,  but  to  consume  one  another  ? 

I hope  for  another  end,  though  not,  indeed,  from  any  of 

ended,  by  the  Giver  of  both,  not  to  scatter,  nor  to  give  away,  but  to 
employ  those  riches  in  the  service  of  mankind  ; in  other  words,  in  the 
redemption  of  the  erring  and  aid  of  the  weak — that  is  to  say,  there  is 
first  to  be  the  work  to  gain  money ; then  the  Sabbath  of  use  for  it— the 
Sabbath,  whose  law  is,  not  to  lose  life,  but  to  save.  It  is  continually 
';ho  fault  or  the  folly  of  the  poor  that  they  are  poor,  as  it  is  usually  a 
child  s fault  if  it  falls  into  a pond,  and  a cripple  s weakness  that  slips 
at  a crossing  ; nevertheless,  most  passers-by  would  pull  the  child  out, 
or  help  up  the  cripple.  Put  it  at  the  worst,  that  all  the  poor  of  tlie 
world  are  but  disobedient  children,  or  careless  cripples,  and  that  all 
rich  people  are  wise  and  strong,  and  you  will  see  at  once  that  neither  is 
the  socialist  right  in  desiring  to  make  everybody  poor,  powerless,  ard 
foolish  as  lie  is  himself,  nor  the  rich  man  right  in  leaving  the  children 
in  the  mire. 


222 


A2J  VALOREM. 


tlie  three  remedies  for  over-population  commonly  suggested 
by  economists. 

These  three  are,  in  brief — Colonization  ; Bringing  in  ol 
waste  lands  ; or  Discouragement  of  Marriage. 

The  first  and  second  of  these  expedients  merely  evade  or 
delay  the  question.  It  will,  indeed,  be  long  before  the  world 
has  been  all  colonized,  and  its  deserts  all  brought  under  culti- 
vation. But  the  radical  question  is  not  how  much  habitable 
land  is  in  the  world,  but  liow  many  human  beings  ought  to 
be  maintained  on  a given  space  of  habitable  land. 

Observe,  I say,  ought  to  be,  not  how  many  can  be.  Bicardo, 
with  his  usual  inaccuracy,  defines  what  he  calls  the  “natural 
rate  of  wages ” as  “ that  which  will  maintain  the  labourer.” 
Maintain  him  ! yes  ; but  how? — the  question  wras  instantly 
thus  asked  of  me  by  a working  girl,  to  whom  I read  the  pas- 
sage. I will  amplify  her  question  for  her.  “ Maintain  him, 
howr  ? ” As  first,  to  what  length  of  life  ? Out  of  a given 
number  of  fed  persons  how  many  are  to  be  old — how  many 
young  ; that  is  to  say,  will  you  arrange  their  maintenance  so 
as  to  kill  them  early — say  at  thirty  or  thirty-five  on  the  aver- 
age, including  deaths  of  weakly  or  ill-fed  children  ? — or  so  as 
to  enable  them  to  live  out  a natural  life  ? You  will  feed  a 
greater  number,  in  the  first  case,*  by  rapidity  of  succession  ; 
probably  a happier  number  in  the  second  : which  does  Mr. 
Bicardo  mean  to  be  their  natural  state,  and  to  which  state 
belongs  the  natural  rate  of  wages  ? 

Again  : A piece  of  land  which  wall  only  support  ten  idle, 
ignorant,  and  improvident  persons,  will  support  thirty  or  forty 
intelligent  and  industrious  ones.  Which  of  these  is  their  nat- 
ural state,  and  to  which  of  them  belongs  the  natural  rate  of 
wages  ? 

Again  : If  a piece  of  land  support  forty  persons  in  industri- 
ous ignorance  ; and  if,  tired  of  this  ignorance,  they  set  apart 
ten  of  their  number  to  study  the  properties  of  cones,  and  the 
sizes  of  stars  ; the  labour  of  these  ten,  being  withdrawn  from 
the  ground,  must  either  tend  to  the  increase  of  food  in  some 

* The  quantity  of  life  is  the  same  in  both  cases  ; but  it  is  differentlj 
allotted. 


AD  VALOREM. 


223 


transitional  manner,  or  the  persons  set  apart  for  siderial  and 
conic  purposes  must  starve,  or  some  one  else  starve  instead  of 
them.  What  is,  therefore,  the  rate  natural  of  wages  of  the 
scientific  persons,  and  how  does  this  rate  relate  to,  or  measure, 
their  reverted  or  transitional  productiveness  ? 

Again  : If  the  ground  maintains,  at  first,  forty  labourers  in 
a peaceable  and  pious  state  of  mind,  but  they  become  in  a few 
years  so  quarrelsome  and  impious  that  they  have  to  set  apart 
five,  to  meditate  upon  and  settle  their  disputes ; — ten,  armed 
to  the  teeth  with  costly  instruments,  to  enforce  the  decisions  ; 
and  five  to  remind  everybody  in  an  eloquent  manner  of  the 
existence  of  a God  ; — what  will  be  the  result  upon  the  general 
power  of  production,  and  what  is  the  “ natural  rate  of  wages” 
of  the  meditative,  muscular,  and  oracular  labourers  ? 

Leaving  these  questions  to  be  discussed,  or  waived,  at  their 
pleasure,  by  Mr.  Ricardo’s  followers,  I proceed  to  state  the 
main  facts  bearing  on  that  probable  future  of  the  labouring 
classes  which  has  been  partially  glanced  at  by  Mr.  Mill.  That 
chapter  and  the  preceding  one  differ  from  the  common  writ- 
ing of  political  economists  in  admitting  some  value  in  the  as- 
pect of  nature,  and  expressing  regret  at  the  probability  of  the 
destruction  of  natural  scenery.  But  we  may  spare  our  anxie- 
ties on  this  head.  Men  can  neither  drink  steam,  nor  eat 
stone.  The  maximum  of  population  on  a given  space  of  land 
implies  also  the  relative  maximum  of  edible  vegetable,  whether 
for  men  or  cattle  ; it  implies  a maximum  of  pure  air  ; and  of 
pure  water.  Therefore  : a maximum  of  wood,  to  transmute 
the  air,  and  of  sloping  ground,  protected  by  herbage  from  the 
extreme  heat  of  the  sun,  to  feed  the  streams.  All  England 
may,  if  it  so  chooses,  become  one  manufacturing  town  ; and 
Englishmen,  sacrificing  themselves  to  the  good  of  general  hu- 
manity, may  live  diminished  lives  in  the  midst  of  noise,  of 
darkness,  and  of  deadly  exhalation.  But  the  world  cannot 
become  a factory,  nor  a mine.  No  amount  of  ingenuity  will 
ever  make  iron  digestible  by  the  million,  nor  substitute  hy- 
drogen for  wine.  Neither  the  avarice  nor  the  rage  of  men 
will  ever  feed  them,  and  however  the  apple  of  Sodom  and  the 
grape  of  Gomorrah  may  spread  their  table  for  a time  with 


224 


AD  VALOREM. 


dainties  of  ashes,  and  nectar  of  asps, — so  long  as  men  live  b^ 
bread,  the  far  away  valleys  must  laugh  as  they  are  covered 
with  the  gold  of  God,  and  the  shouts  of  His  happy  multitudes 
ring  round  the  wine-press  and  the  well. 

Nor  need  our  more  sentimental  economists  fear  the  toe 
wide  spread  of  the  formalities  of  a mechanical  agriculture., 
The  presence  of  a wise  population  implies  the  search  for  felic- 
ity  as  well  as  for  food  ; nor  can  any  population  reach  its  max- 
imum but  through  that  wisdom  which  “ rejoices  ” in  the  hab- 
itable parts  of  the  earth.  The  desert  has  its  appointed  place 
and  work  ; the  eternal  engine,  whose  beam  is  the  earth’s  axle, 
-whose  beat  is  its  year,  and  whose  breath  is  its  ocean,  will  still 
divide  imperiously  to  their  desert  kingdoms,  bound  with  un- 
furrowable  rock,  and  swept  by  unarrested  sand,  their  powers 
of  frost  and  fire  : but  the  zones  and  lands  between,  habitable, 
will  be  loveliest  in  habitation.  The  desire  of  the  heart  is  also 
the  light  of  the  eyes.  No  scene  is  continually  and  untiringly 
loved,  but  one  rich  by  joyful  human  labour  ; smooth  in  field, 
fair  in  garden  ; full  in  orchard ; trim,  sweet,  and  frequent  in 
homestead  ; ringing  with  voices  of  vivid  existence.  No  air  is 
sweet  that  is  silent ; it  is  only  sweet  when  full  of  low  currents 
of  under  sound — triplets  of  birds,  and  murmur  and  chirp  of  in- 
sects, and  deep-toned  words  of  men,  and  wayward  trebles  of 
childhood.  As  the  art  of  life  is  learned,  it  will  be  found  at 
last  that  all  lovely  things  are  also  necessary  : — the  wild  flower 
by  the  wayside,  as  -well  as  the  tended  corn  ; and  the  wild 
birds  and  creatures  of  the  forest,  as  well  as  the  tended  cattle  ; 
because  man  doth  not  live  by  bread  only,  but  also  by  the  des- 
ert manna  ; by  every  wondrous  word  and  unknowable  work 
of  God.  Happy,  in  that  he  knew  them  not,  nor  did  his  fathers 
know  ; and  that  round  about  him  reaches  yet  into  the  infinite, 
the  amazement  of  his  existence. 

Note,  finally,  that  all  effectual  advancement  towards  this 
true  felicity  of  the  human  race  must  be  by  individual,  not 
public  effort.  Certain  general  measures  may  aid,  certain  re- 
vised laws  guide,  such  advancement  ; but  the  measure  and 
law  which  have  first  to  be  determined  are  those  of  each  man’s 
home.  We  continually  hear  it  recommended  by  sagacious 


AD  VALOREM. 


225 


people  to  complaining  neighbours  (usually  less  well  placed  in 
the  world  than  themselves),  that  they  should  “ remain  content 
in  the  station  in  which  Providence  has  placed  them.”  There 
are  perhaps  some  circumstances  of  life  in  which  Providence 
has  no  intention  that  people  should  be  content.  Nevertheless, 
the  maxim  is  on  the  whole  a good  one  ; but  it  is  peculiarly 
for  home  use.  That  your  neighbour  should,  or  should  not,  re- 
main content  with  his  position,  is  not  your  business ; but  it 
is  very  much  your  business  to  remain  content  with  your  own. 
What  is  chiefly  needed  in  England  at  the  present  day  is  to 
show  the  quantity  of  pleasure  that  may  be  obtained  by  a con- 
sistent, well-administered  competence,  modest,  confessed,  and 
laborious.  We  need  examples  of  people  who,  leaving  Heaven 
to  decide  whether  they  are  to  rise  in  the  world,  decide  for 
themselves  that  they  will  be  happy  in  it,  and  have  resolved  to 
seek — not  greater  wealth,  but  simpler  pleasure  ; not  higher 
fortune,  but  deeper  felicity  ; making  the  first  of  possessions, 
self-possession  ; and  honouring  themselves  in  the  harmless 
pride  and  calm  pursuits  of  peace. 

Of  which  lowly  peace  it  is  written  that  “ justice  and  peace 
have  kissed  each  other  ; ” and  that  the  fruit  of  justice  is 
“sown  in  peace  of  them  that  make  peace;”  not  “peace- 
makers ” in  the  common  understanding — reconcilers  of  quar- 
rels ; (though  that  function  also  follows  on  the  greater  one  ;) 
but  peace-Creators  ; Givers  of  Calm.  Which  you  cannot  give, 
unless  you  first  gain  ; nor  is  this  gain  one  which  will  follow 
assuredly  on  any  course  of  business,  commonly  so  called.  No 
form  of  gain  is  less  probable,  business  being  (as  is  shown  in 
the  language  of  all  nations — 7ra)A.efr  from  7 reAw,  7rpacris  from 
vrepao),  venire,  vendre,  and  venal,  from  venio,  &c.)  essentially 
restless — and  probably  contentious  ; — having  a raven-like  mind 
to  the  motion  to  and  fro,  as  to  the  carrion  food  ; whereas  the 
olive-feeding  and  bearing  birds  look  for  rest  for  their  feet : 
thus  it  is  said  of  WTisdom  that  she  “ hath  builded  her  house, 
and  hewn  out  her  seven  pillars  ; ” and  even  when,  though  apt 
to  wait  long  at  the  doorposts,  she  has  to  leave  her  house  and 
go  abroad,  her  paths  are  peace  also. 

For  us,  at  all  events,  her  work  must  begin  at  the  entry  of 


226 


AL  VALOREM. 


the  doors  : all  true  economy  is  “ Law  of  the  house.”  Strive 
to  make  that  law  strict,  simple,  generous  : waste  nothing,  and 
grudge  nothing.  Care  in  nowise  to  make  more  of  money,  but 
care  to  make  much  of  it ; remembering  always  the  great,  pal- 
pable, inevitable  fact — the  rule  and  root  of  all  economy — that 
what  one  person  has,  another  cannot  have  ; and  that  every 
atom  of  substance,  of  whatever  kind,  used  or  consumed,  is  so 
much  human  life  spent ; which,  if  it  issue  in  the  saving  pres- 
ent life,  or  gaining  more,  is  well  spent,  but  if  not,  is  either 
so  much  life  prevented,  or  so  much  slain.  In  all  buying,  con- 
sider, first,  what  condition  of  existence  you  cause  in  the  pro- 
ducers of  what  you  buy  ; secondly,  whether  the  sum  you  have 
paid  is  just  to  the  producer,  and  in  due  proportion,  lodged  in 
his  hands  ; * thirdly,  to  how  much  clear  use,  for  food,  knowl- 
edge, or  joy,  this  that  you  have  bought  can  be  put ; and 
fourthly,  to  whom  and  in  what  way  it  can  be  most  speedily 
and  .serviceably  distributed  : in  all  dealings  whatsoever  in- 
sisting on  entire  openness  and  stern  fulfilment ; and  in  all 
doings,  on  perfection  and  loveliness  of  accomplishment ; es- 
pecially on  fineness  and  purity  of  all  marketable  commodity  : 
watching  at  the  same  time  for  all  ways  of  gaining,  or  teaching, 
powers  of  simple  pleasure  ; and  of  showing  “ ocr ov  iv  do-<£o8e'Au> 
yey’  ova ap  ” — the  sum  of  enjoyment  depending  not  on  the 
quantity  of  things  tasted,  but  on  the  vivacity  and  patience  of 
taste. 

And  if,  on  due  and  honest  thought  over  these  things,  it  seems 
that  the  kind  of  existence  to  which  men  are  now  summoned 
by  every  plea  of  pity  and  claim  of  right,  may,  for  some  time 
at  least,  not  to  be  a luxurious  one  ; — consider  whether,  even 
supposing  it  guiltless,  luxury  would  be  desired  by  any  of  us, 

* Tlie  proper  offices  of  middle-men,  namely,  overseers  (or  authorita- 
tive workmen),  conveyancers  (merchants,  sailors,  retail  dealers,  &c.), 
and  ordertakers  (persons  employed  to  receive  directions  from  the  con- 
sumer), must,  of  course,  he  examined  before  I can  enter  farther  into 
the  question  of  just  payment  of  the  first  producer.  But  I have  not 
spoken  of  them  in  these  introductory  papers,  because  the  evils  attend- 
ant on  the  abuse  of  such  intermediate  functions  result  not  from  any  al- 
leged principle  of  modern  political  economy,  but  from  private  careless 
ness  or  iniquity. 


AD  VALOREM. 


m 


if  we  saw  clearly  at  our  sides  the  suffering  which  accompanies 
it  in  the  world.  Luxury  is  indeed  possible  in  the  future — in- 
nocent and  exquisite  ; luxury  for  all,  and  by  the  help  of  all : 
but  luxury  at  present  can  only  be  enjoyed  by  the  ignorant ; 
the  cruelest  man  living  could  not  sit  at  his  feast,  unless  he  sat 
blindfold.  Raise  the  veil  boldly  ; face  the  light ; and  if,  as 
yet,  the  light  of  the  eye  can  only  be  through  tears,  and  the 
light  of  the  body  through  sackcloth,  go  thou  forth  weeping, 
bearing  precious  seed,  until  the  time  come,  and  the  kingdom, 
when  Christ’s  gift  of  bread  and  bequest  of  peace  shall  be  Unto 
this  last  as  unto  thee ; and  when,  for  earth’s  severed  multi- 
tudes of  the  wicked  and  the  weary,  there  shall  be  holier  rec- 
onciliation than  that  of  the  narrow  home,  and  calm  economy 
where  the  Wicked  cease — not  from  trouble,  but  from  troub- 
ling- *^nd  the  Weary  are  at  rest. 

THE  END. 


'HE  QUEEN  OF  THE  AIR 

BEING 

A STUDY  OF  THE  GREEK  MYTHS 


CLOUD  AND  STORM 


PREFACE. 


My  days  and  strength  have  lately  been  much  broken  ; and 
I never  more  felt  the  insufficiency  of  both  than  in  preparing 
for  the  press  the  following  desultory  memoranda  on  a most 
noble  subject.  But  I leave  them  now  as  they  stand,  for  no 
time  nor  labour  would  be  enough  to  complete  them  to  my 
contentment ; and  I believe  that  they  contain  suggestions 
which  may  be  followed  with  safety,  by  persons  wno  are  be- 
ginning to  take  interest  in  the  aspects  of  mythology,  which 
only  recent  investigation  has  removed  from  the  region  of  con- 
jecture into  that  of  rational  inquiry.  I have  some  advantage, 
also,  from  my  field  work,  in  the  interpretation  of  myths  re- 
lating to  natural  phenomena  ; and  I have  had  always  near  me, 
since  we  were  at  college  together,  a sure,  and  unweariedly 
kind,  guide,  in  my  friend  Charles  Newton,  to  whom  we  owe 
the  finding  of  more  treasure  in  mines  of  marble,  than,  were 
it  rightly  estimated,  all  California  could  buy.  I must  not, 
however,  permit  the  chance  of  his  name  being  in  any  wise 
associated  with  my  errors.  Much  of  my  work  has  been  done 
obstinately  in  my  own  way  ; and  he  is  never  responsible  for 
me,  though  he  has  often  kept  me  right,  or  at  least  enabled 
me  to  advance  in  a right  direction.  Absolutely  right  no  one 
can  be  in  such  matters  ; nor  does  a day  pass  without  con- 
vincing every  honest  student  of  antiquity  of  some  partial  er- 
ror, and  showing  him  better  how  to  think,  and  where  to  look. 
But  I knew  that  there  was  no  hope  of  my  being  able  to  enter 
with  advantage  on  the  fields  of  history  opened  by  the  splendid 
investigation  of  recent  philologists  ; though  I could  qualify 
myself,  by  attention  and  sympathy,  to  understand  here  and 
there,  a verse  cf  Homer’s  or  Hesiod’s,  as  the  simple  people 
did  for  whom  they  sang. 


232 


PREFACE. 


Even  while  I correct  these  sheets  for  press,  a lecture  by 
Professor  Tyndall  has  been  put  into  my  hands,  which  I 
ought  to  have  heard  last  16th  of  January,  but  was  hindered 
by  mischance ; and  which,  I now  find,  completes,  in  two  im- 
portant particulars,  the  evidence  of  an  instinctive  truth  in 
ancient  symbolism  ; showing,  first,  that  the  Greek  concep- 
tion of  an  setherial  element  pervading  space  is  justified  by  the 
closest  reasoning  of  modern  physicists  ; and,  secondly,  that 
the  blue  of  the  sky,  hitherto  thought  to  be  caused  by  watery 
vapour,  is,  indeed,  reflected  from  the  divided  air  itself  ; so 
that  the  bright  blue  of  the  eyes  of  Athena,  and  the  deep  blue 
of  her  segis,  prove  to  be  accurate  mythic  expressions  of  natu- 
ral phenomena  which  it  is  an  uttermost  triumph  of  recent 
science  to  have  revealed. 

Indeed,  it  would  be  very  difficult  to  imagine  triumph  more 
complete.  To  form,  “ within  an  experimental  tube,  a bit  of 
more  perfect  sky  than  the  sky  itself ! ” here  is  magic  of  the 
finest  sort ! singularly  reversed  from  that  of  old  time,  which 
only  asserted  its  competency  to  enclose  in  bottles  elemental 
forces  that  were — not  of  the  sky. 

Let  me,  in  thanking  Professor  Tyndall  for  the  true  wonder 
of  this  piece  of  work,  ask  his  pardon,  and  that  of  all  masters 
in  physical  science,  for  any  words  of  mine,  either  in  the  fob 
lowing  pages  or  elsewhere,  that  may  ever  seem  to  fail  in  the 
respect  due  to  their  great  powers  of  thought,  or  in  the  ad- 
miration due  to  the  far  scope  of  their  discovery.  But  I will 
be  judged  by  themselves,  if  I have  not  bitter  reason  to  ask 
them  to  teach  us  more  than  yet  they  have  taught. 

This  first  day  of  May,  1869,  I am  writing  where  my  work 
was  begun  thirty-five  years  ago, — within  sight  of  the  snows 
of  the  higher  Alps.  In  that  half  of  the  permitted  life  of  man, 
I have  seen  strange  evil  brought  upon  every  scene  that  I best 
loved,  or  tried  to  make  beloved  by  others.  The  light  which 
once  flushed  those  pale  summits  with  its  rose  at  dawn,  and 
purple  at  sunset,  is  now  umbered  and  faint ; the  air  which 
once  inlaid  the  clefts  of  all  their  golden  crags  with  azure,  is 
now  defiled  with  languid  coils  of  smoke,  belched  from  worse 
than  volcanic  fires ; their  very  glacier  waves  are  ebbing,  and 


PREFACE. 


233 


their  snows  fading,  as  if  Hell  had  breathed  on  them  ; the 
waters  that  once  sank  at  their  feet  into  crystalline  rest,  are 
now  dimmed  and  foul,  from  deep  to  deep,  and  shore  to  shore. 
These  are  no  careless  words — they  are  accurately — horribly— 
true.  I know  what  the  Swiss  lakes  were  ; no  pool  of  Alpine 
fountain  at  its  source  was  clearer.  This  morning,  on  the  Lake 
of  Geneva,  at  half  a mile  from  the  beach,  I could  scarcely  see 
my  oar-blade  a fathom  deep. 

The  light,  the  air,  the  waters,  all  defiled ! How  of  the 
earth  itself  ? Take  this  one  fact  for  type  of  honour  done  by 
the  modern  Swiss  to  the  earth  of  his  native  land.  There  used 
to  be  a little  rock  at  the  end  of  the  avenue  by  the  port  of 
Neuchatel ; there,  the  last  marble  of  the  foot  of  Jura,  sloping 
to  the  blue  water,  and  (at  this  time  of  year)  covered  with 
bright  pink  tufts  of  Saponaria.  I went,  three  days  since,  to 
gather  a blossom  at  the  place.  The  goodly  native  rock  and 
its  flowers  were  covered  with  the  dust  and  refuse  of  the  town ; 
but,  in  the  middle  of  the  avenue,  was  a newly-constructed  ar- 
tificial rockery,  with  a fountain  twisted  through  a spinning 
spout,  and  an  inscription  on  one  of  its  loose-tumbled  stones, — 

“ Aux  Botanistes, 

Le  club  Jurassique.” 

Ah,  masters  of  modern  science,  give  me  back  my  Athena  out 
of  your  vials,  and  seal,  if  it  may  be,  once  more,  Asmodeus 
therein.  You  have  divided  the  elements,  and  united  them  ; 
enslaved  them  upon  the  earth,  and  discerned  them  in  the 
stars.  Teach  us,  now,  but  this  of  them,  which  is  all  that 
man  need  know, — that  the  Air  is  given  to  him  for  his  life  ; 
and  the  Rain  to  his  thirst,  and  for  his  baptism  ; and  the  Fire 
for  warmth ; and  the  Sun  for  sight ; and  the  Earth  for  his 
meat — and  his  Rest. 

yjRV  a Y May  1 


I-  ' : ' ' : ’ 

■ 

■ 

••  -<V;  .VJi'r  J -0'v>700 

;:u  Lij^vfu  :g-s-zi]M&£! 

: ■ ..  i .••:  i.  . ; ‘ * 

: 


THE  QUEEN  OF  THE  AIR 


L 

ATHENA  CHALINITIS.* 

( Athena  in  the  Heavens.) 

Lecture  jn  the  Greek  Myths  of  Storm,  given  {partly)  in  University  College \ 
London,  March  9th,  1869. 

1.  I will  not  ask  your  pardon  for  endeavouring  to  interest 
you  in  thb  subject  of  Greek  Mythology  ; but  I must  ask  your 
permission  to  approach  it  in  a temper  differing  from  that 
\n  which  it  is  frequently  treated.  We  cannot  justly  interpret 
the  religion  of  any  people,  unless  we  are  prepared  to  admit 
that  we  ourselves,  as  well  as  they,  are  liable  to  error  in  mat- 
ters of  faith  ; and  that  the  convictions  of  others,  however 
singular,  may  in  some  points  have  been  well  founded,  while 
our  own,  however  reasonable,  may  in  some  particulars  be  mis- 
taken. You  must  forgive  me,  therefore,  for  not  always  dis- 
tinctively calling  the  creeds  of  the  past  “ superstition,”  and  the 
creeds  of  the  present  day  “ religion  ; 75  as  well  as  for  assuming 
that  a faith  now  confessed  may  sometimes  be  superficial,  and 
that  a faith  long  forgotten  may  once  have  been  sincere.  It  is  the 
task  of  the  Divine  to  condemn  the  errors  of  antiquity,  and  of 
the  Philologist  to  account  for  them  : I will  only  pray  you  to 
read,  with  patience,  and  human  sympathy,  the  thoughts  of 
men  who  lived  without  blame  in  a darkness  they  could  not 
dispel ; and  to  remember  that,  whatever  charge  of  folly  may 
justly  attach  to  the  saying, — “There  is  no  God,”  the  folly  is 

* a Athena  the  Restrainer.”  The  name  is  given  to  her  as  having 
helped  BelleroDhon  to  bridle  Pegasus,  the  flying  cloud. 


THE  QUEEN  OF  THE  AIR . 


23o 

prouder,  deeper,  and  less  pardonable,  in  saying,  “ There  h no 
God  but  for  me.” 

2.  A Myth,  in  its  simplest  definition,  is  a story  with  a mean- 
ing attached  to  it,  other  than  it  seems  to  have  at  first ; and 
the  fact  that  it  has  such  a meaning  is  generally  marked  by 
some  of  its  circumstances  being  extraordinary,  or,  in  the  com- 
mon use  of  the  word,  unnatural.  Thus,  if  I tell  you  that 
Hercules  killed  a water-serpent  in  the  lake  of  Lerna,  and  if  I 
mean,  and  you  understand,  nothing  more  than  that  fact,  the 
story,  whether  true  or  false,  is  not  a myth.  But  if  by  telling 
you  this,  I mean  that  Hercules  purified  the  stagnation  of  many 
streams  from  deadly  miasmata,  my  story,  however  simple,  is  a 
true  myth  ; only,  as,  if  I left  it  in  that  simplicity,  you  would 
probably  look  for  nothing  beyond,  it  will  be  wTise  in  me  to 
surprise  your  attention  by  adding  some  singular  circum- 
stance ; for  instance,  that  the  water-snake  had  several  heads, 
which  revived  as  fast  as  they  were  killed,  and  which  poisoned 
even  the  foot  that  trode  upon  them  as  they  slept.  And  in 
proportion  to  the  fulness  of  intended  meaning  I shall  proba- 
bly multiply  and  refine  upon  these  improbabilities ; as,  sup- 
pose, if,  instead  of  desiring  only  to  tell  you  that  Hercules 
purified  a marsh,  I wished  you  to  understand  that  he  con- 
tended with  the  venom  and  vapour  of  envy  and  evil  ambition, 
whether  in  other  men’s  souls  or  in  his  own,  and  choked  that 
malaria  only  by  supreme  toil, — I might  tell  you  that  this  ser- 
pent was  formed  by  the  Goddess  whose  pride  was  in  the  trial 
of  Hercules ; and  that  its  place  of  abode  w^as  by  a palm-tree  ; 
and  that  for  every  head  of  it  that  wTas  cut  off,  two  rose  up  with 
renewed  life  ; and  that  the  hero  found  at  last  he  could  not 
kill  the  creature  at  all  by  cutting  its  heads  off  or  crushing 
them  ; but  only  by  burning  them  down ; and  that  the  mid- 
most of  them  could  not  be  killed  even  that  way,  but  had  to  be 
buried  alive.  Only  in  proportion  as  I mean  more,  I shall  cer- 
tainly appear  more  absurd  in  my  statement ; and  at  last,  when 
I get  unendurably  significant,  all  practical  persons  will  agree 
that  I was  talking  mere  nonsense  from  the  beginning,  and 
never  meant  anything  at  all. 

3.  It  is  just  possible,  however,  also,  that  the  story-tellel 


ATHENA  IN  THE  HEAVENS. 


237 


may  all  along  have  meant  nothing  but  what  he  said ; and 
that,  incredible  as  the  events  may  appear,  he  himself  literally 
believed — and  expected  you  also  to  believe — all  this  about 
Hercules,  without  any  latent  moral  or  history  whatever.  And 
it  is  very  necessary,  in  reading  traditions  of  this  kind,  to  deter- 
mine, first  of  all,  whether  you  are  listening  to  a simple  person, 
who  is  relating  what,  at  all  events,  he  believes  to  be  true  (and 
may,  therefore,  possibly  have  been  so  to  some  extent),  or  to 
a reserved  philosopher,  who  is  veiling  a theory  of  the  universe 
under  the  grotesque  of  a fairy  tale.  It  is,  in  general,  more 
likely  that  the  first  supposition  should  be  the  right  one : — 
simple  and  credulous  persons  are,  perhaps  fortunately,  more 
common  than  philosophers:  and  it  is  of  the  highest  impor- 
tance that  you  should  take  their  innocent  testimony  as  it  was 
meant,  and  not  efface,  under  the  graceful  explanation  which 
your  cultivated  ingenuity  may  suggest,  either  the  evidence 
their  story  may  contain  (such  as  it  is  worth)  of  an  extra- 
ordinary event  having  really  taken  place,  or  the  unquestion- 
able light  which  it  will  cast  upon  the  character  of  the  person 
by’ whom  it  was  frankly  believed.  And  to  deal  with  Greek 
religion  honestly,  you  must  at  once  understand  that  this  lit- 
eral belief  was,  in  the  mind  of  the  general  people,  as  deeply 
rooted  as  ours  in  the  legends  of  our  own  sacred  book  ; and 
that  a basis  of  unmiraculous  event  was  as  little  suspected,  and 
an  explanatory  symbolism  as  rarely  traced,  by  them,  as  by  us. 

You  must,  therefore,  observe  that  I deeply  degrade  the 
position  which  such  a myth  as  that  just  referred  to  occupied 
in  the  Greek  mind,  by  comparing  it  (for  fear  of  offending  you) 
to  our  story  of  St.  George  and  the  Dragon.  Still,  the  analogy 
is  perfect  in  minor  respects  ; and  though  it  fails  to  give  you 
any  notion  of  the  vitally  religious  earnestness  of  the  Greek 
faith,  it  will  exactly  illustrate  the  manner  in  which  faith  laid 
hold  of  its  objects. 

4.  This  story  of  Hercules  and  the  Hydra,  then,  was  to  the 
general  Greek  mind,  in  its  best  days,  a tale  about  a real  hero 
and  a real  monster.  Not  one  in  a thousand  knew  anything 
of  the  way  in  which  the  story  had  arisen,  any  more  than  the 
English  peasant  generally  is  aware  of  the  plebeian  origin  of 


238 


TEE  QUEEN  OF  THE  AIR. 


St.  George  ; or  supposes  that  there  were  once  alive  in  the 
world,  with  sharp  teeth  and  claws,  real,  and  very  ugly,  flying 
dragons.  On  the  other  hand,  few  persons  traced  any  moral 
or  symbolical  meaning  in  the  story,  and  the  average  Greek 
was  as  far  from  imagining  any  interpretation  like  that  I have 
just  given  you,  as  an  average  Englishman  is  from  seeing  in 
St.  George  the  Red  Cross  Knight  of  Spenser,  or  in  the  Dragon 
the  Spirit  of  Infidelity.  But,  for  all  that,  there  was  a certain 
undercurrent  of  consciousness  in  all  minds,  that  the  figures 
meant  more  than  they  at  first  showed ; and,  according  to  each 
man’s  own  faculties  of  sentiment,  he  judged  and  read  them ; 
just  as  a Knight  of  the  Garter  reads  more  in  the  jewel  on  his 
collar  than  the  George  and  Dragon  of  a public-house  ex- 
presses to  the  host  or  to  his  customers.  Thus,  to  the  mean 
person  the  myth  always  meant  little  ; to  the  noble  person, 
much  : and  the  greater  their  familiarity  with  it,  the  more 
contemptible  it  became  to  the  one,  and  the  more  sacred  to 
the  other  : until  vulgar  commentators  explained  it  entirely 
away,  while  Virgil  made  it  the  crowning  glory  of  his  choral 
hymn  to  Hercules — 

“Around  tliee,  powerless  to  infect  tliy  soul, 

Rose,  in  liis  crested  crowd,  the  Lerna  worm.” 

“ Non  te  rationis  egentem 
Lernseus  turba  capitum  circumstetit  anguis.” 

And  although,  in  any  special  toil  of  the  hero’s  life,  the  moral 
interpretation  wras  rarely  with  definiteness  attached  to  its 
event,  yet  in  the  whole  course  of  the  life,  not  only  a symboli- 
cal meaning,  but  the  warrant  for  the  existence  of  a real  spirit- 
ual power,  was  apprehended  of  all  men.  Hercules  wras  no 
dead  hero,  to  be  remembered  only  as  a victor  over  monsters 
of  the  past — harmless  nowT,  as  slain.  He  w/as  the  perpetual 
type  and  mirror  of  heroism,  and  its  present  and  living  aid 
against  every  ravenous  form  of  human  trial  and  pain. 

5.  But,  if  we  seek  to  know  more  than  this,  and  to  ascertain 
the  manner  in  which  the  story  first  crystallized  into  its  shape, 
we  shall  find  ourselves  led  back  generally  to  one  or  other  of 
two  sources — either  to  actual  historical  events,  represented  by 


ATHENA  IN  THE  HEAVENS. 


239 


the  fancy  under  figures  personifying  them  ; or  else  to  natural 
phenomena  similarly  endowed  with  life  by  the  imaginative 
power,  usually  more  or  less  under  the  influence  of  terror. 
The  historical  myths  we  must  leave  the  masters  of  history  to 
follow  ; they,  and  the  events  they  record,  being  yet  involved 
in  great,  though  attractive  and  penetrable,  mystery.  But  the 
stars,  and  hills,  and  storms  are  with  us  now,  as  they  were 
with  others  of  old  ; and  it  only  needs  that  we  look  at  them 
with  the  earnestness  of  those  childish  eyes  to  understand  the 
first  words  spoken  of  them  by  the  children  of  men.  And 
then,  in  all  the  most  beautiful  and  enduring  myths,  we  shall 
find,  not  only  a literal  story  of  a real  person, — not  only  a par- 
allel imagery  of  moral  principle, — but  an  underlying  worship 
of  natural  phenomena,  out  of  which  both  have  sprung,  and  in 
which  both  forever  remain  rooted.  Thus,  from  the  real  sun, 
rising  and  setting  ; from  thg  real  atmosphere,  calm  in  its 
dominion  of  unfading  blue,  and  fierce  in  its  descent  of  tem- 
pest,— the  Greek  forms  first  the  idea  of  two  entirely  personal 
and  corporeal  gods,  whose  limbs  are  clothed  in  divine  flesh 
and  whose  brows  are  crowned  with  divine  beauty ; yet  so  real 
that  the  quiver  rattles  at  their  shoulder,  and  the  chariot  bends 
beneath  their  weight.  And,  on  the  other  hand,  collaterally 
with  these  corporeal  images,  and  never  for  one  instant  separ- 
ated from  them,  he  conceives  also  two  omnipresent  spiritual 
influences,  of  which  one  illuminates,  as  the  sun,  with  a con- 
stant fire,  whatever  in  humanity  is  skilful  and  wise  ; and  the 
other,  like  the  living  air,  breathes  the  calm  of  heavenly  forti- 
tude, and  strength  of  righteous  anger,  into  every  human 
breast  that  is  pure  and  brave. 

6.  Now,  therefore,  in  nearly  every  myth  of  importance,  and 
certainly  in  every  one  of  those  of  which  I shall  speak  to-night, 
you  have  to  discern  these  three  structural  parts — the  root  and 
the  two  branches  : — the  root,  in  physical  existence,  sun,  or 
sky,  or  cloud,  or  sea  ; then  the  personal  incarnation  of  that  ; 
becoming  a trusted  and  companionable  deity,  with  whom  you 
may  walk  hand  in  hand,  as  a child  with  its  brother  or  its  sis- 
ter ; and,  lastly,  the  moral  significance  of  the  image,  which  is 
in  all  the  great  myths  eternally  and  beneficently  true. 


24-0 


THE  QUEEN  OF  THE  AIR. 


7.  The  great  myths  5 that  is  to  say,  myths  made  by  great 
people.  For  the  first  plain  fact  about  myth-making  is  one 
which  has  been  most  strangely  lost  sight  of,— that  you  cam 
not  make  a myth  unless  you  have  something  to  make  it  of. 
You  cannot  tell  a secret  which  you  don’t  know.  If  the  myth 
is  about  the  sky,  it  must  have  been  made  by  somebody  who 
had  looked  at  the  sky.  If  the  myth  is  about  justice  and  forti- 
tude, it  must  have  been  made  by  some  one  who  knew  what  it 
was  to  be  just  or  patient.  According  to  the  quantity  of  un- 
derstanding in  the  person  will  be  the  quantity  of  significance 
in  his  fable  ; and  the  myth  of  a simple  and  ignorant  race  must 
necessarily  mean  little,  because  a simple  and  ignorant  race 
have  little  to  mean.  So  the  great  question  in  reading  a story  is 
always,  not  what  wild  hunter  dreamed,  or  what  childish  race 
first  dreaded  it  ; but  what  wise  man  first  perfectly  told,  and 
what  strong  people  first  perfectly  lived  by  it.  And  the  real 
meaning  of  any  myth  is  that  which  it  has  at  the  noblest  age 
of  the  nation  among  whom  it  is  current.  The  farther  back  you 
pierce,  the  less  significance  you  will  find,  until  you  come  to 
the  first  narrow  thought,  which,  indeed,  contains  the  germ  of 
the  accomplished  tradition  ; but  only  as  the  seed  contains  the 
flower.  As  the  intelligence  and  passion  of  the  race  develop, 
they  cling  to  and  nourish  their  beloved  and  sacred  legend  ; leaf 
by  leaf  it  expands  under  the  touch  of  more  pure  affections,  and 
more  delicate  imagination,  until  at  last  the  perfect  fable 
burgeons  out  into  symmetry  of  milky  stem,  and  honied 
bell. 

8.  But  through  whatever  changes  it  may  pass,  remember 
that  our  right  reading  of  it  is  wholly  dependent  on  the  ma- 
terials we  have  in  our  own  minds  for  an  intelligent  answering 
sympathy.  If  it  first  arose  among  a people  who  dwelt  under 
stainless,  skies,  and  measured  their  journeys  by  ascending  and 
declining  stars,  we  certainly  cannot  read  their  story,  if  we  have 
never  seen  anything  above  us  in  the  day,  but  smoke  ; nor  any- 
thing round  us  in  the  night  but  candles.  If  the  tale  goes  on 
to  change  clouds  or  planets  into  living  creatures, — to  invest 
them  with  fair  forms — and  inflame  them  with  mighty  pas- 
sions, we  can  only  understand  the  story  of  the  human-hearted 


ATHENA  IN  THE  HEAVENS , 


241 


things,  in  so  far  as  we  ourselves  take  pleasure  in  the  perfect* 
ness  of  visible  form,  or  can  sympathize,  by  an  effort  of  imagi- 
nation, with  the  strange  people  who  had  other  loves  than  that 
of  wealth,  and  other  interests  than  those  of  commerce.  And, 
lastly,  if  the  myth  complete  itself  to  the  fulfilled  thoughts  of 
the  nation,  by  attributing  to  the  gods,  whom  they  have  carved 
out  of  their  fantasy,  continual  presence  with  their  own  souls ; 
and  their  every  effort  for  good  is  finally  guided  by  the  sense  of 
the  companionship,  the  praise,  and  the  pure  will  of  Immortals, 
we  shall  be  able  to  follow  them  into  this  last  circle  of  their 
faitli  only  in  the  degree  in  which  the  better  parts  of  our  own 
beings  have  been  also  stirred  by  the  aspects  of  nature,  or 
strengthened  by  her  lavs.  It  may  be  easy  to  prove  that  the 
ascent  of  xApolio  in  his  chariot  signifies  nothing  but  the  rising 
of  the  sun.  But  what  does  the  sunrise  itself  signify  to  us  ? 
If  only  languid  return  to  frivolous  amusement,  or  fruitless 
labour,  it  will,  indeed,  not  be  easy  for  us  to  conceive  the 
power,  over  a Greek,  of  the  name  of  Apollo.  But  if,  for  us 
also,  as  for  the  Greek,  the  sunrise  means  daily  restoration  to 
the  sense  of  passionate  gladness  and  of  perfect  life — if  it 
means  the  thrilling  of  new  strength  through  every  nerve, — the 
shedding  over  us  of  a better  peace  than  the  peace  of  night,  in 
the  power  of  the  dawn, — and  the  purging  of  evil  vision  and  fear 
by  the  baptism  of  its  dew  ; — if  the  sun  itself  is  an  influence, 
to  us  also,  of  spiritual  good — and  becomes  thus  in  reality,  not 
in  imagination,  to  us  also,  a spiritual  power, — we  may  then 
soon  over-pass  the  narrow  limit  of  conception  which  kept 
that  power  impersonal,  and  rise  with  the  Greek  to  the  thought 
of  an  angel  who  rejoiced  as  a strong  man  to  run  his  course, 
whose  voice,  calling  to  life  and  to  labour,  rang  round  the 
earth,  and  whose  going  forth  was  to  the  ends  of  heaven. 

9.  The  time,  then,  at  which  I shall  take  up  for  you,  as  well 
as  I can  decipher  it,  the  tradition  of  the  Gods  of  Greece,  shall 
be  near  the  beginning  of  its  central  and  formed  faith,-— about 
500  b.c., — a faith  of  which  the  character  is  perfectly  repre- 
sented by  Pindar  and  iEschylus,  who  are  both  of  them  out- 
spokenly religious,  and  entirely  sincere  men  ; -while  we  may 
always  look  back  to  find  the  less  developed  thought  of  the 


242 


THE  QUEEN  OF  TnE  AIR. 


preceding  epoch  given  by  Homer,  in  a more  occult,  subtl« 
half-instinctive  and  involuntary  way. 

10.  Now,  at  that  culminating  period  of  the  Greek  religion 
we  find,  under  one  governing  Lord  of  all  things,  four  subor- 
dinate elemental  forces,  and  four  spiritual  powers  living  in 
them,  and  commanding  them.  The  elements  are  of  course 
the  well-known  four  of  the  ancient  world — the  earth,  the 
waters,  the  fire,  and  the  air  ; and  the  living  powers  of  them 
are  Demeter,  the  Latin  Ceres ; Poseidon,  the  Latin  Nep- 
tune ; Apollo,  who  has  retained  always  his  Greek  name  ; and 
Athena,  the  Latin  Minerva.  Each  of  these  are  descended 
from,  or  changed  from,  more  ancient,  and  therefore  more 
mystic  deities  of  the  earth  and  heaven,  and  of  a finer  element 
of  tether  supposed  to  be  beyond  the  heavens  ; * but  at  this 
time  we  find  the  four  quite  definite,  both  in  their  kingdoms 
and  in  their  personalities.  They  are  the  rulers  of  the  earth 
that  we  tread  upon,  and  the  air  that  we  breathe  ; and  are 
with  us  as  closely,  in  their  vivid  humanity,  as  the  dust  that 
they  animate,  and  the  winds  that  they  bridle.  I shall  briefly 
define  for  you  the  range  of  their  separate  dominions,  and  then 
follow,  as  far  as  we  have  time,  the  most  interesting  of  the  le- 
gends which  relate  to  the  queen  of  the  air. 

11.  The  rule  of  the  first  spirit,  Demeter,  the  earth  mother, 
is  over  the  earth,  first,  as  the  origin  of  all  life— the  dust  from 
whence  we  were  taken  ; secondly,  as  the  receiver  of  all  things 
back  at  last  into  silence — “ Dust  thou  art,  and  unto  dust  shalt 
tliou  return.”  And,  therefore,  as  the  most  tender  image  of 
this  appearing  and  fading  life,  in  the  birth  and  fall  of  flowers, 
her  daughter  Proserpine  plays  in  the  fields  of  Sicily,  and 
thence  is  torn  away  into  darkness,  and  becomes  the  Queen  of 
Fate — not  merely  of  death,  but  of  the  gloom  which  closes 
over  and  ends,  not  beauty  only,  but  sin  ; and  chiefly  of  sins 
the  sin  against  the  life  she  gave  : so  that  she  is.  in  her 
highest  power,  Persephone,  the  avenger  and  purifier  of  blood, 

- — “ The  voice  of  thy  brother’s  blood  cries  to  me  out  of  the 
ground.”  Then,  side  by  side  with  this  queen  of  the  earth,  we 

* And  by  modern  science  now  also  asserted,  and  witli  probability  ar- 
gued, *o  exist 


ATHENA  IN  THE  HEAVENS. 


243 


find  a demigod  of  agriculture  by  tlie  plough — the  lord  oi 
grain,  or  of  the  thing  ground  by  the  mill.  And  it  is  a 
singular  proof  of  the  simplicity  of  Greek  character  at  this 
noble  time,  that  of  all  representations  left  to  us  of  their  deities 
by  their  art,  few  are  so  frequent,  and  none  perhaps  so  beau- 
tiful, as  the  symbol  of  this  spirit  of  agriculture. 

12.  Then  the  dominant  spirit  of  the  element  of  water  is 
Neptune,  but  subordinate  to  him  are  myriads  of  other  water 
spirits,  of  whom  Nereus  is  the  chief,  with  Palaemon,  and 
Leucothea,  the  “ white  lady  ” of  the  sea  ; and  Thetis,  and 
nymphs  innumerable,  who,  like  her,  could  “ suffer  a sea 
change,”  while  the  river  deities  had  each  independent  power, 
according  to  the  preciousness  of  their  streams  to  the  cities 
fed  by  them, — the  “fountain  Aretliuse,  and  thou,  honored 
flood,  smooth  sliding  Hindus,  crowned  with  vocal  reeds.” 
And,  spiritually,  this  king  of  the  waters  is  lord  of  the  strength 
and  daily  How  of  human  life — he  gives  it  material  force  and 
victory  ; which  is  the  meaning  of  the  dedication  of  the  hair, 
as  the  sign  of  the  strength  of  life,  to  the  river  of  the  native 
land. 

13.  Demeter,  then,  over  the  earth,  and  its  giving  and  re- 
ceiving of  life.  Neptune  over  the  waters,  and  the  flow  and 
force  of  life, — always  among  the  Greeks  typified  by  the  horse, 
which  was  to  them  as  a crested  sea-wave,  animated  and 
bridled.  Then  the  third  element,  fire,  has  set  over  it  two 
powers  : over  earthly  fire,  the  assistant  of  human  labour,  is 
set  Hephaestus,  lord  of  all  labour  in  which  is  the  flush  and  the 
sweat  of  the  brow  ; and  over  heavenly  fire,  the  source  of  day, 
is  set  Apollo,  the  spirit  of  all  kindling,  purifying,  and  illu- 
minating intellectual  wisdom  ; each  of  these  gods  having  also 
their  subordinate  or  associated  powers—  servant,  or  sister,  or 
companion  muse. 

14.  Then,  lastly,  we  come  to  the  myth  which  is  to  be  our 
subject  of  closer  inquiry — the  story  of  Athena  and  of  the 
deities  subordinate  to  her.  This  great  goddess,  the  Neith  of 
the  Egyptians,  the  Athena  or  Athenaia  of  the  Greeks,  and, 
with  broken  power,  half  usurped  by  Mars,  the  Minerva  of  the 
Latins,  is,  physically,  the  queen  of  the  air ; having  supreme 


244 


THE  QUEEN  OF  THE  AIR 


power  both  over  its  blessing  of  calm,  and  wrath  of  storm, 
and,  spiritually,  she  is  the  queen  of  the  breath  of  man,  first  of 
the  bodily  breathing  which  is  life  to  his  blood,  and  strength 
to  his  arm  in  battle  ; and  then  of  the  mental  breathing,  or 
inspiration,  which  is  his  moral  health  and  habitual  wisdom  ; 
wisdom  of  conduct  and  of  the  heart,  as  opposed  to  the 
wisdom  of  imagination  and  the  brain  ; moral,  as  distinct 
from  intellectual ; inspired,  as  distinct  from  illuminated. 

15.  By  a singular,  and  fortunate,  though  I believe  wholly 
accidental  coincidence,  the  heart-virtue,  of  which  she  is  the 
spirit,  was  separated  by  the  ancients  into  four  divisions, 
which  have  since  obtained  acceptance  from  ail  men  as  rightly 
discerned,  and  have  received,  as  if  from  the  quarters  of  the 
four  winds  of  which  Athena  is  the  natural  queen,  the  name  of 
“ Cardinal  ” virtues  : namely,  Prudence,  (the  right  seeing, 
and  foreseeing,  of  events  through  darkness)  ; Justice,  (the 
righteous  bestowal  of  favour  and  of  indignation)  ; Fortitude, 
(patience  under  trial  by  pain)  ; and  Temperance,  (patience 
under  trial  by  pleasure).  With  respect  to  these  four  virtues, 
the  attributes  of  Athena  are  all  distinct.  In  her  prudence,  or 
sight  in  darkness,  she  is  “ Glaukopis,”  “owl-eyed.*’*  In  her 
justice,  which  is  the  dominant  virtue,  she  wears  two  robes, 
one  of  light  and  one  of  darkness ; the  robe  of  light,  saffron 
colour,  or  the  colour  of  the  daybreak,  falls  to  her  feet,  cover- 
ing her  wholly  with  favour  and  love, — the  calm  of  the  sky  in 
blessing  ; it  is  embroidered  along  its  edge  with  her  victory 
over  the  giants,  (the  troublous  powers  of  the  earth,)  and  the 
likeness  of  it  was  woven  yearly  by  the  Athenian  maidens  and 
carried  to  the  ■ temple  of  their  own  Athena, — not  to  the 
Parthenon,  that  was  the  temple  of  all  the  world’s  Athena, — 
but  this  they  carried  to  the  temple  of  their  own  only  one, 
who  loved  them,  and  stayed  with  them  always.  Then  her 
robe  of  indignation  is  worn  on  her  breast  and  left  arm  only, 
fringed  with  fatal  serpents,  and  fastened  with  Gorgonian 
cold,  turning  men  to  stone ; physically,  the  lightning  and  the 
hail  of  chastisement  by  storm.  Then  in  her  fortitude  she 

* There  are  many  other  meanings  in  the  epithet  ; see,  farther  on,  § 

W,  P-  71. 


ATHENA  IN  THE  HEAVENS. 


245 


wears  the  crested  and  unstooping  helmet ; * and  lastly,  in  her 
temperance,  she  is  the  queen  of  maidenhood— stainless  as  the 
air  of  heaven. 

16.  But  all  these  virtues  mass  themselves  in  the  Greek 
mind  into  the  two  main  ones — of  Justice,  or  noble  passion, 
and  Fortitude,  or  noble  patience  ; and  of  these,  the  chief 
powers  of  Athena,  the  Greeks  had  divinely  written  for  them, 
and  for  all  men  after  them,  two  mighty  songs, — one,  of  the 
Menis,f  mens,  passion,  or  zeal,  of  Athena,  breathed  into  a 
mortal  whose  name  is  “Ache  of  heart,”  and  whose  short  life 
is  only  the  incarnate  brooding  and  burst  of  storm  ; and  the 
other  is  of  the  foresight  and  fortitude  of  Athena,  maintained  by 
her  in  the  heart  of  a mortal  whose  name  is  given  to  him  from 
a longer  grief,  Odysseus,  the  full  of  sorrow,  the  much-endur- 
ing, and  the  long-suffering. 

17.  The  minor  expressions  by  the  Greeks  in  w*ord,  in  sym- 
bol, and  in  religious  service,  of  this  faith,  are  so  many  and  so 
beautiful,  that  I hope  some  day  to  gather  at  least  a few  of 
them  into  a separate  body  of  evidence  respecting  the  power 
of  Athena,  and  its  relations  to  the  ethical  conception  of  the 
Homeric  poems,  or,  rather,  to  their  ethical  nature  ; for  they 
are  not  conceived  didactically,  but  are  didactic  in  their  es- 
sence, as  all  good  art  is.  There  is  an  increasing  insensibility 
to  this  character,  and  even  an  open  denial  of  if,  among  us, 
now,  which  is  one  of  the  most  curious  errors  of  modernism, 
—the  peculiar  and  judicial  blindness  of  an  age  which,  having 
long  practised  art  and  poetry  for  the  sake  of  pleasure  only, 
has  become  incapable  of  reading  their  language  when  they 
were  both  didactic  : and  also,  having  been  itself  accustomed 
to  a professedly  didactic  teaching,  which  yet,  for  private  in- 
terests, studiously  avoids  collision  with  every  prevalent  vice 
of  its  day,  (and  especially  with  avarice),  has  become  equally 

* I am  compelled,  for  clearness’  sake,  to  mark  only  one  meaning  at  a 
time.  Athena's  helmet  is  sometimes  a mask — sometimes  a sign  of 
anger — sometimes  of  the  highest  light  of  setlier  ; hut  I cannot  speak  of 
all  this  at  once. 

f This  first  word  of  the  Iliad,  Menis,  afterwards  passes  into  the  Latin 
Mens  ; is  the  root  of  the  Latin  name  for  Athena,  “ Minerva,’  and  so  o / 
the  English  “ mind.” 


2 d6 


THE  QUEEN  OF  THE  AIR. 


dead  to  the  intensely  ethical  conceptions  of  a race  which 
habitually  divided  all  men  into  two  broad  classes  of  worthy  or 
worthless  ; — good,  and  good  for  nothing.  And  even  the  cele- 
brated passage  of  Horace  about  the  Iliad  is  now  misread  or 
disbelieved,  as  if  it  was  impossible  that  the  Iliad  could  be  in- 
structive because  it  is  not  like  a sermon.  Horace  does  not 
say  that  it  is  like  a sermon,  and  would  have  been  still  less 
likely  to  say  so,  if  he  ever  had  had  the  advantage  of  hearing  a 
sermon.  “ I have  been  reading  that  story  of  Troy  again  ” 
(thus  he  writes  to  a noble  youth  of  Home  whom  he  cared  for), 
“ quietly  at  Prameste,  while  you  have  been  busy  at  Rome  ; 
and  truly  I think  that  what  is  base  and  what  is  noble,  and 
what  useful  and  useless,  may  be  better  learned  from  that, 
than  from  all  Chrysippus’  and  Crantor’s  talk  put  together.”* 
’Which  is  profoundly  true,  not  of  the  Iliad  only,  but  of  all 
other  great  art  whatsoever ; for  all  pieces  of  such  art  are 
didactic  in  the  purest  way,  indirectly  and  occultly,  so  that, 
first,  you  shall  only  be  bettered  by  them  if  you  are  already 
hard  at  work  in  bettering  yourself  ; and  when  you  are  bet- 
tered by  them,  it  shall  be  partly  with  a general  acceptance  of 
their  influence,  so  constant  and  subtle  that  you  shall  be  no 
more  conscious  of  it  than  of  the  healthy  digestion  of  food  ; 
and  partly  by  a gift  of  unexpected  truth,  which  you  shall 
only  find  by  slow  mining  for  it ; — which  is  withheld  on  pur- 
pose, and  close-locked,  that  you  may'  not  get  it  till  you  have 
forged  the  key  of  it  in  a furnace  of  your  own  heating.  And 
this  withholding  of  their  meaning  is  continual,  and  confessed, 
in  the  great  poets.  Thus  Pindar  says  of  himself:  “ There  is 
many  an  arrow  in  my  quiver,  full  of  speech  to  the  wise,  but, 
for  the  many,  they  need  interpreters.”  And  neither  Pindar, 
nor  iEschylus,  nor  Hesiod,  nor  Homer,  nor  any  of  the  greater 
poets  or  teachers  of  any  nation  or  time,  ever  spoke  but  with 
intentional  reservation  : nay,  beyond  this,  there  is  often  a 
meaning  which  they  themselves  cannot  interpret,— which  it 
may  be  for  ages  long  after  them  to  interpret, — in  what  they 

* Note.,  once  for  all,  that  unless  when  there  is  question  about  soms 
particular  expression,  I never  translate  literally,  hut  give  the  real  force 
of  what  it.  said,  as  I best  can,  freely. 


ATHENA  IN  THE  HEAVENS. 


247 


said,  so  far  as  it  recorded  true  imaginative  vision.  For  all 
the  greatest  myths  have  been  seen,  by  the  men  who  tell  them, 
involuntarily  and  passively, — seen  by  them  with  as  great  dis- 
tinctness (and  in  some  respects,  though  not  in  all,  under  con- 
ditions as  far  beyond  the  control  of  their  will)  as  a dream  sent 
to  any  of  us  by  night  when  we  dream  clearest ; and  it  is  this 
veracity  of  vision  that  could  not  be  refused,  and  of  moral  that 
could  not  be  foreseen,  which  in  modern  historical  inquiry  has 
been  left  wholly  out  of  account : being  indeed  the  thing 
which  no  merely  historical  investigator  can  understand,  or 
even  believe  ; for  it  belongs  exclusively  to  the  creative  or  ar- 
tistic group  of  men,  and  can  only  be  interpreted  by  those  of 
their  race,  who  themselves  in  some  measure  also  see  visions 
and  dream  dreams. 

So  that  you  may  obtain  a more  truthful  idea  of  the  nature 
of  Greek  religion  and  legend  from  the  poems  of  Keats,  and 
the  nearly  as  beautiful,  and,  in  general  grasp  of  subject,  far 
more  powerful,  recent  work  of  Morris,  than  from  frigid 
scholarship,  however  extensive.  Not  that  the  poet’s  impres- 
sions or  renderings  of  things  are  wholly  true,  but  their  truth 
is  vital,  not  formal.  They  are  like  sketches  from  the  life  by 
Reynolds  or  Gainsborough,  which  may  be  demonstrably  in- 
accurate or  imaginary  in  many  traits,  and  indistinct  in  others, 
yet  will  be  in  the  deepest  sense  like,  and  true  ; while  the 
work  of  historical  analysis  is  too  often  weak  with  loss,  through 
the  very  labour  of  its  miniature  touches,  or  useless  in  clumsy 
and  vapid  veracity  of  externals,  and  complacent  security  of 
having  done  all  that  is  required  for  the  portrait,  when  it  has 
measured  the  breadth  of  the  forehead,  and  the  length  of  the 
nose. 

18.  The  first  of  requirements,  then,  for  the  right  reading  of 
myths,  is  the  understanding  of  the  nature  of  all  true  vision  by 
noble  persons  ; namely,  that  it  is  founded  on  constant  laws 
common  to  all  human  nature  ; that  it  perceives,  however 
darkly,  things  which  are  for  all  ages  true  ; — that  we  can  only 
understand  it  so  far  as  we  have  some  perception  of  the  same 
truth  ; — and  that  its  fulness  is  developed  and  manifested  more 
and  more  by  the  reverberation  of  it  from  minds  of  the  same 


248 


THE  QUEEN  OF  THE  AIR 


mirror-temper,  in  succeeding  ages.  You  will  understand 
Homer  better  by  seeing  his  reflection  in  Dante,  as  you  may 
trace  new  forms  and  softer  colours  in  a hill-side,  redoubled 
by  a lake. 

I shall  be  able  partly  to  show  you,  even  to-night,  how  much, 
in  the  Homeric  vision  of  Athena,  has  been  made  clearer  by 
the  advance  of  time,  being  thus  essentially  and  eternally  true  ; 
but  I must  in  the  outset  indicate  the  relation  to  that  central 
thought  of  the  imagery  of  the  inferior  deities  of  storm. 

19.  And  first  I will  take  the  myth  of  iEolus,  (the  “ sage 
Hippotades  ” of  Milton),  as  it  is  delivered  pure  by  Homer 
from  the  early  times. 

Why  do  you  suppose  Milton  calls  him  “ sage?”  One  does 
not  usually  think  of  the  winds  as  very  thoughtful  or  deliberate 
powers.  But  hear  Homer:  “Then  we  came  to  the  iEolian 
island,  and  there  dwelt  iEolus  Hippotades,  deal*  to  the  death- 
less gods  : there  he  dwelt  in  a floating  island,  and  around  it 
was  a wall  of  brass  that  could  not  be  broken  ; and  the  smooth 
rock  of  it  ran  up  sheer.  To  whom  twelve  children  were  born 
in  the  sacred  chambers — six  daughters  and  six  strong  sons ; 
and  they  dwell  for  ever  with  their  beloved  father,  and  their 
mother  strict  in  duty  ; and  with  them  are  laid  up  a thousand 
benefits  ; and  the  misty  house  around  them  rings  with  fluting 
all  the  day  long.”  Now,  you  are  to  note  first,  in  this  descrip- 
tion, the  wall  of  brass  and  the  sheer  rock.  You  will  find, 
throughout  the  fables  of  the  tempest-group,  that  the  brazen 
wall  and  precipice  (occurring  in  another  myth  as  the  brazen 
tower  of  Danae)  are  always  connected  with  the  idea  of  the 
towering  cloud  lighted  by  the  sun,  here  truly  described  as  a 
floating  island.  Secondly,  you  hear  that  all  treasures  were 
laid  up  in  them  ; therefore,  you  know  this  iEolus  is  lord  of 
t he  beneficent  winds  (“  he  bringeth  the  wind  out  of  his  treas- 
uries ”) ; and  presently  afterwards  Homer  calls  him  the  “ stew- 
ard ” of  the  winds,  the  master  of  the  storehouse  of  them. 
And  this  idea  of  gifts  and  preciousness  in  the  winds  of  heaven 
is  carried  out  in  the  well-known  sequel  of  the  fable  iEolus 
gives  them  to  Ulysses,  all  but  one,  bound  in  leathern  bags, 
with  a glittering  cord  of  silver  ; and  so  like  bags  of  treasure 


ATHENA  IN  THE  HEAVENS. 


249 


that  the  sailors  think  they  are  so,  and  open  them  to  see, 
And  when  Ulysses  is  thus  driven  back  to  iEolus,  and  prays 
him  again  to  help  him,  note  the  deliberate  words  of  the  King's 
refusal, — “ Did  I not,”  he  says,  “ send  thee  on  thy  wray  heart- 
ily,  that  thou  mightest  reach  thy  country,  thy  home,  and 
whatever  is  dear  to  thee  ? It  is  not  lawful  for  me  again  to 
send  forth  favourably  on  his  journey  a man  hated  by  the 
happy  gods.”  This  idea  of  the  beneficence  of  iEolus  remains 
to  the  latest  times,  though  Virgil,  by  adopting  the  vulgar 
change  of  the  cloud  island  into  Lipari,  has  lost  it  a little  ; but 
even  when  it  is  finally  explained  away  by  Diodorus,  iEolus  is 
still  a kind-hearted  monarch,  who  lived  on  the  coast  of  Sor- 
rento, invented  the  use  of  sails,  and  established  a system  of 
storm  signals. 

20.  Another  beneficent  storm-power,  Boreas,  occupies  an 
important  place  in  early  legend,  and  a singularly  principal 
one  in  art ; and  I wish  I could  read  to  you  a passage  of  Plato 
about  the  legend  of  Boreas  and  Oreithyia,*  and  the  breeze  and 
shade  of  the  Ilissus — notwithstanding  its  severe  reflection 
upon  persons  who  waste  their  time  on  mythological  studies  : 
but  I must  go  on  at  once  to  the  fable  with  which  you  are  all 
generally  familiar,  that  of  the  Harpies. 

This  is  always  connected  with  that  of  Boreas  or  the  north 
wind,  because  the  two  sons  of  Boreas  are  enemies  of  the 
Harpies,  and  drive  them  away  into  frantic  flight.  The  myth 
in  its  first  literal  form  means  only  the  battle  between  the  fair 
north  wind  and  the  foul  south  one  : the  two  Harpies,  “ Storm- 
swift”  and  “ Swiftfoot,”  are  the  sisters  of  the  rainbow — that  is 
to  say,  they  are  the  broken  drifts  of  the  showery  south  wind, 
and  the  clear  north  wind  drives  them  back  ; but  they  quickly 
take  a deeper  and  more  malignant  significance.  You  know 
the  short,  violent,  spiral  gusts  that  lift  the  dust  before  coming 
rain  : the  Harpies  get  identified  first  with  these,  and  then 
with  more  violent  whirlwinds,  and  so  they  are  called  “ Harpies,” 
£<  the  Snatchers,”  and  are  thought  of  as  entirely  destructive  ; 
their  manner  of  destroying  being  twofold — by  snatching 

* Translated  by  Max  Muller  in  the  opening  of  his  essay  on  “ Com- 
parative Mythology.”  (Chips  from  a Germom  V/orkshopt  vol.  ii.) 


250 


THE  QUEEN  OF  THE  AIR. 


away,  and  by  defiling  and  polluting.  This  is  a month  in 
which  you  may  really  see  a small  Harpy  at  her  work  almost 
whenever  you  choose.  The  first  time  that  there  is  threatening 
of  rain  after  two  or  three  days  of  fine  weather,  leave  your 
window  well  open  to  the  street,  and  some  books  or  papers  on 
the  table  ; and  if  you  do  not,  in  a little  while,  know  what  the 
Harpies  mean  ; and  how  they  snatch,  and  how  they  defile,  I’ll 
give  up  my  Greek  myths. 

21.  That  is  the  physical  meaning.  It  is  now  easy  to  find 
the  mental  one.  You  must  all  have  felt  the  expression  of 
ignoble  anger  in  those  fitful  gusts  of  sudden  storm.  There 
is  a sense  of  provocation  and  apparent  bitterness  of  purpose 
in  their  thin  and  senseless  fury,  wholly  different  from  the 
noble  anger  of  the  greater  tempests.  Also,  they  seem  useless 
and  unnatural,  and  the  Greek  thinks  of  them  always  as  vile  in 
malice,  and  opposed,  therefore,  to  the  sons  of  Boreas,  who 
are  kindly  winds,  that  fill  sails,  and  wave  harvests, — full  of 
bracing  health  and  happy  impulses.  From  this  lower  and 
merely  malicious  temper,  the  Harpies  rise  into  a greater  ter- 
ror, always  associated  with  their  whirling  motion,  which  is 
indeed  indicative  of  the  most  destructive  winds  : and  they  are 
thus  related  to  the  nobler  tempests,  as  Chary bdis  to  the  sea ; 
they  are  devouring  and  desolating,  merciless,  making  all 
things  disappear  that  come  in  their  grasp  : and  so,  spiritually, 
they  are  the  gusts  of  vexatious,  fretful,  lawless  passion,  vain 
and  overshadowing,  discontented  and  lamenting,  meagre  and 
insane, — spirits  of  wasted  energy,  and  wandering  disease,  and 
unappeased  famine,  and  unsatisfied  hope.  So  you  have,  on 
the  one  side,  the  winds  of  prosperity  and  health,  on  the  other, 
of  ruin  and  sickness.  Understand  that,  once,  deeply — any 
who  have  ever  known  the  weariness  of  vain  desires ; the  piti- 
ful, unconquerable,  coiling  and  recoiling  and  self-involved 
returns  of  some  sickening  famine  and  thirst  of  heart: — and 
you  will  know  wdiat  was  in  the  sound  of  the  Harpy  Cekeno's 
shriek  from  her  rock  ; and  why,  in  the  seventh  circle  of  the 
“Inferno,”  the  Harpies  make  their  nests  in  the  warped 
branches  of  the  trees  that  are  the  souls  of  suicides. 

22.  Now  you  must  always  be  prepared  to  read  Greek  lo- 


ATHENA  IN  THE  HEAVENS. 


251 


gends  as  you  trace  threads  through  figures  on  a silken  damask : 
the  same  thread  runs  through  the  web,  but  it  makes  part  of 
different  figures.  Joined  with  other  colours  you  hardly  rec- 
ognize it,  and  in  different  lights,  it  is  dark  or  light.  Thus 
the  Greek  fables  blend  and  cross  curiously  in  different  direc- 
tions,  till  they  knit  themselves  into  an  arabesque  where  some- 
times you  cannot  tell  black  from  purple,  nor  blue  from  eme- 
rald— they  being  all  the  truer  for  this,  because  the  truths  of 
emotion  they  represent  are  interwoven  in  the  same  way,  but 
all  the  more  difficult  to  read,  and  to  explain  in  any  order. 
Thus  the  Harpies,  as  they  represent  vain  desire,  are  con- 
nected with  the  Sirens,  who  are  the  spirits  of  constant  desire : 
so  that  it  is  difficult  sometimes  in  early  art  to  know  which 
are  meant,  both  being  represented  alike  as  birds  with 
women’s  heads ; only  the  Sirens  are  the  great  constant  de- 
sires— the  infinite  sicknesses  of  heart — which,  rightly  placed, 
give  life,  and  wrongly  placed,  waste  it  away  ; so  that  there 
are  two  groups  of  Sirens,  one  noble  and  saving,  as  the  other 
is  fatal.  But  there  are  no  animating  or  saving  Harpies  ; their 
nature  is  always  vexing  and  full  of  weariness,  and  thus  they 
are  curiously  connected  with  the  whole  group  of  legends 
about  Tantalus. 

23.  We  all  know  what  it  is  to  be  tantalized  ; but  we  do  not 
often  think  of  asking  what  Tantalus  was  tantalized  for — what 
he  had  done,  to  be  for  ever  kept  hungry  in  sight  of  food  ? 
Well ; he  had  not  been  condemned  to  this  merely  for  being  a 
glutton.  By  Dante  the  same  punishment  is  assigned  to  sim- 
ple gluttony,  to  purge  it  away  ; — but  the  sins  of  Tantalus 
■were  of  a much  wider  and  more  mysterious  kind.  There  are 
four  great  sins  attributed  to  him — one,  stealing  the  food  of 
the  Gods  to  give  it  to  men  ; another,  sacrificing  his  son  to 
feed  the  Gods  themselves  (it  may  remind  you  for  a moment 
of  what  I -was  telling  you  of  the  earthly  character  of  Demeter, 
that,  while  the  other  Gods  ail  refuse,  she,  dreaming  about  her 
lost  daughter,  eats  part  of  the  shoulder  of  Pelops  before  .she 
knows  what  she  is  doing)  ; another  sin  is,  telling  the  secrets 
of  the  Gods ; and  only  the  fourth — stealing  the  golden  dog  of 
Pandareos — is  connected  with  gluttony.  The  special  sense 


252 


THE  QUEEN  OF  THE  AIR. 


of  this  myth  is  marked  by  Pandareos  receiving  the  happy 
privilege  of  never  being  troubled  with  indigestion  ; the  dog, 
in  general,  however,  mythically  represents  all  utterly  senseless 
and  carnal  desires  ; mainly  that  of  gluttony  ; and  in  the 
mythic  sense  .of  Hades — that  is  to  say,  so  far  as  it  represents 
spiritual  ruin  in  this  life,  and  not  a literal  hell — the  dog  Cer- 
berus is  its  gate-keeper — with  this  special  marking  of  his 
character  of  sensual  passion,  that  he  fawns  on  all  those  who 
descend,  but  rages  against  all  who  would  return,  (the  Yirgilian 
“facilis  descensus  ” being  a later  recognition  of  this  mythic 
character  of  Hades  :)  the  last  labour  of  Hercules  is  the  drag- 
ging him  up  to  the  light ; and  in  some  sort,  he  represents  the 
voracity  or  devouring  of  Hades  itself  ; and  the  mediaeval  rep- 
resentation of  the  mouth  of  hell  perpetuates  the  same  thought. 
Then,  also,  the  power  of  evil  passion  is  parti}'  associated  with 
the  red  and  scorching  light  of  Sirius,  as  opposed  to  the  pure 
light  of  the  sun  : — he  is  the  dog-star  of  ruin  ; and  hence  the 
continual  Homeric  dwelling  upon  him,  and  comparison  of  the 
flame  of  anger  to  his  swarthy  light  ; only,  in  his  scorching,  it 
is  thirst,  not  hunger,  over  which  lie  rules  physically  ; so  that 
the  fable  of  Icarius,  his  first  master,  corresponds,  among  the 
Greeks,  to  the  legend  of  the  drunkenness  of  Noah. 

The  story  of  Actseon,  the  raging  death  of  Hecuba,  and  the 
tradition  of  the  white  dog  which  ate  part  of  Hercules’  first 
sacrifice,  and  so  gave  name  to  the  Cynosarges,  are  all  various 
phases  of  the  same  thought — the  Greek  notion  of  the  dog 
being  throughout  confused  between  its  serviceable  fidelity,  its 
watchfulness,  its  foul  voracity,  shamelessness,  and  deadly  mad- 
ness, while,  with  the  curious  reversal  or  recoil  of  the  meaning 
which  attaches  itself  to  nearly  every  great  myth — and  which 
we  shall  presently  see  notably  exemplified  in  the  relations  of 
the  serpent  to  Athena, — the  dog  becomes  in  philosophy  a 
type  of  severity  and  abstinence. 

24.  It  would  carry  us  too  far  aside  were  I to  tell  you  the 
story  of  Pandareos’  dog — or  rather,  of  Jupiter’s  dog,  for  Pan- 
dareos was  its  guardian  only  ; all  that  bears  on  our  present 
purpose  is  that  the  guardian  of  this  golden  dog  had  three 
daughters,  one  of  whom  was  subject  to  the  power  of  the  Sk 


ATHENA  IN  TnE  HEAVENS. 


253 


rens,  and  is  turned  into  tlie  nightingale  ; and  the  other  two 
were  subject  to  the  power  of  the  Harpies,  and  this  was  what 
happened  to  them.  They  were  very  beautiful,  and  they  were 
beloved  by  the  gods  in  their  youth,  and  all  the  great  god- 
desses were  anxious  to  bring  them  up  rightly.  Of  all  types 
of  young  ladies’  education,  there  is  nothing  so  splendid  as 
that  of  the  younger  daughters  of  Pandareos.  They  have  liter- 
ally the  four  greatest  goddesses  for  their  governesses.  Athena 
teaches  them  domestic  accomplishments  ; how  to  weave,  and 
sew,  and  the  like  ; Artemis  teaches  them  to  hold  themselves 
up  straight ; Hera,  how  to  behave  proudly  and  oppressively 
to  company;  and  Aphrodite — delightful  governess — feeds 
them  with  cakes  and  honey  all  day  long.  All  goes  well,  until 
just  the  time  when  they  are  going  to  be  brought  out ; then 
there  is  a great  dispute  whom  they  are  to  marry,  and  in  the 
midst  of  it  they  are  carried  off  by  the  Harpies,  given  by  them 
to  be  slaves  to  the  Furies,  and  never  seen  more.  But  of  course 
there  is  nothing  in  Greek  myths  ; and  one  never  heard  of  such 
things  as  vain  desires,  and  empty  hopes,  and  clouded  passions, 
defiling  and  snatching  away  the  souls  of  maidens,  in  a London 
season. 

I have  no  time  to  trace  for  you  any  more  harpy  legends, 
though  they  are  full  of  the  most  curious  interest ; but  I may 
confirm  for  you  my  interpretation  of  this  one,  and  prove  its 
importance  in  the  Greek  mind,  by  noting  that  Polygnotus 
painted  these  maidens,  in  his  great  religious  series  of  paint- 
ings at  Delphi,  crowned  with  flowers,  and  playing  at  dice  ; 
and  that  Penelope  remembers  them  in  her  last  fit  of  despair, 
just  before  the  return  of  Ulysses  ; and  prays  bitterly  that  she 
may  be  snatched  away  at  once  into  nothingness  by  the  Har- 
pies, like  Pandareos’  daughters;  rather  than  be  tormented 
longer  by  her  deferred  hope,  and  anguish  of  disappointed 
love. 

25.  I have  hitherto  spoken  only  of  deities  of  the  winds. 
We  pass  now  to  a far  more  important  group,  the  Deities  of 
Cloud.  Both  of  these  are  subordinate  to  the  ruling  powrer  of 
the  air,  as  the  demigods  of  the  fountains  and  minor  seas  are  to 
the  great  deep : but,  as  the  cloud-firmament  detaches  itself 


254 


TEE  QUEEN  OF  THE  AIR 


more  from  the  air,  and  has  a wider  range  of  ministry  than  the 
minor  streams  and  seas,  the  highest  cloud  deity,  Hermes,  has 
a rank  more  equal  with  Athena  than  Nereus  or  Proteus  with 
Neptune  ; and  there  is  greater  difficulty  in  tracing  liis  charac- 
ter, because  his  physical  dominion  over  the  clouds  can,  of 
course,  be  asserted  only  where  clouds  are ; and,  therefore, 
scarcely  at  all  in  Egypt  : * so  that  the  changes  which  Hermes 
undergoes  in  becoming  a Greek  from  an  Egyptian  and  Phoe- 
nician god,  are  greater  than  in  an}^  other  case  of  adopted  tra- 
dition. In  Egypt  Hermes  is  a deity  of  historical  record,  and 
a conductor  of  the  dead  to  judgment  ; the  Greeks  take  away 
much  of  this  historical  function,  assigning  it  to  the  Muses  ; 
but,  in  investing  him  with  the  physical  power  over  clouds, 
they  give  him  that  which  the  Muses  disdain,  the  power  of 
concealment,  and  of  theft.  The  snatching  away  by  the  Har- 
pies is  with  brute  force  ; but  the  snatching  away  by  the  clouds 
is  connected  with  the  thought  of  hiding,  and  of  making  things 
seem  to  be  what  they  are  not ; so  that  Hermes  is  the  god  of 
lying,  as  he  is  of  mist ; and  yet  with  this  ignoble  function  of 
making  things  vanish  and  disappear,  is  connected  the  rem- 
nant of  his  grand  Egyptian  authority  of  leading  away  souls  in 
the  cloud  of  death  (the  actual  dimness  of  sight  caused  by 
mortal  wounds  physically  suggesting  the  darkness  and  descent 
of  clouds,  and  continually  being  so  described  in  the  Iliad)  , 
while  the  sense  of  the  need  of  guidance  on  the  untrodden  road 
follows  necessarily.  You  cannot  but  remember  how  this 
thought  of  cloud  guidance,  and  cloud  receiving  of  souls  at 
death,  has  been  elsewhere  ratified. 

26.  Without  following  that  higher  clue,  I will  pass  to  the 
lovely  group  of  myths  connected  with  the  birth  of  Hermes  on 
the  Greek  mountains.  You  know  that  the  valley  of  Sparta  is 

* I believe  that  the  conclusions  of  recent  scholarship  are  generally 
opposed  to  the  Herodotean  ideas  of  any  direct  acceptance  by  the  Greeks 
of  Egyptian  myths  : and  very  certainly,  Greek  art  is  developed  by  giv- 
ing the  veracity  and  simplicity  of  real  life  to  Eastern  savage  grotesque  ; 
and  not  by  softening  the  severity  of  pure  Egyptian  design.  Bnt  it  is  of 
no  consequence  whether  one  conception  was,  or  was  not,  in  this  case, 
derived  from  the  other  : my  object  is  only  to  mark  the  essential  differ- 
ences between  them. 


ATHENA  IN  THE  HEAVENS. 


255 


one  of  the  noblest  mountain  ravines  in  the  world,  and  that 
the  western  flank  of  it  is  formed  by  an  unbroken  chain  of 
crags,  forty  miles  long,  rising,  opposite  Sparta,  to  a height  ot 
8,000  feet,  and  known  as  the  chain  of  Taygetus.  Now,  the 
nymph  from  whom  that  mountain  ridge  is  named,  wras  the 
mother  of  Lacedaemon  ; therefore,  the  mythic  ancestress  of 
the  Spartan  race.  She  is  the  nymph  Tavgeta,  and  one  of  the 
seven  stars  of  spring ; one  of  those  Pleiades  of  whom  is  the 
question  to  Job, — “Canst  tliou  bind  the  sweet  influences  of 
Pleiades,  or  loose  the  bands  of  Orion  ? ” “ The  sweet  influ- 

ences of  Pleiades, ’’  of  the  stars  of  spring, — nowhere  sweeter 
than  among  the  pine-clad  slopes  of  the  hills  of  Sparta  and 
Arcadia,  when  the  snows  of  their  higher  summits,  beneath  the 
sunshine  of  April,  fell  into  fountains,  and  rose  into  clouds  ; 
and  in  every  ravine  was  a newly-awakened  voice  of  waters, — 
soft  increase  of  whisper  among  its  sacred  stones : and  on 
every  crag  its  forming  and  fading  veil  of  radiant  cloud  ; 
temple  above  temple,  of  the  divine  marble  that  no  tool  can 
pollute,  nor  ruin  undermine.  And,  therefore,  beyond  this 
central  valley,  this  great  Greek  vase  of  Arcadia,  on  the  “ hol- 
low ” mountain,  Cyllene,  or  “ pregnant  ” mountain,  called  also 
“ cold,”  because  there  the  vapours  rest,*  and  born  of  the  eldest 
of  those  stars  of  Spring,  that  Maia,  from  whom  your  own 
month  of  May  has  its  name,  bringing  to  you,  in  the  green  of 
her  garlands,  and  the  white  of  her  hawthorn,  the  unrecognized 
symbols  of  the  pastures  and  the  wreathed  snows  of  Arcadia, 
wrhere  long  ago  she  was  queen  of  stars  : there,  first  cradled 
and  wrapt  in  swaddling-clothes  ; then  raised,  in  a moment  of 
surprise,  into  his  wandering  power, — is  born  the  shepherd  of 
the  clouds,  winged-footed  and  deceiving, — blinding  the  eyes 
of  Argus, — escaping  from  the  grasp  of  Apollo — restless  mes- 
senger between  the  highest  sky  and  topmost  earth — “the 
herald  Mercury,  new  lighted  on  a heaven-kissing  hill.” 

27.  Now,  it  will  be  wholly  impossible,  at  present,  to  trace 
foi  you  any  of  the  minor  Greek  expressions  of  this  thought, 

* On  the  altar  of  Hermes  on  its  summit,  as  on  that  of  the  Lacinian 
Hera,  no  wind  ever  stirred  the  ashes.  By  those  altars,  the  Gods  of 
Heav#n  were  appeased  ; and  all  their  storms  at  rest. 


256 


THE  QUEEN  OF  THE  AIR. 


except  only  that  Mercury,  as  the  cloud  shepherd,  is  especially 
called  Eriophoros,  the  wool-bearer.  You  will  recollect  the 
name  from  the  common  woolly  rush  “eriophorum  ” which  has 
a cloud  of  silky  seed  ; and  note  also  that  he  wears  distinctively 
the  flat  cap,  petasos , named  from  a word  meaning  to  expand  ; 
which  shaded  from  the  sun,  and  is  worn  on  journeys.  You 
have  the  epithet  of  mountains  “ cloud-capped  ” as  an  estab- 
lished form  with  every  poet,  and  the  Mont  Pilate  of  Lucerne 
is  named  from  a Latin  word  signifying  specially  a woollen  cap  ; 
but  Mercury  lias,  besides,  a general  Homeric  epithet,  curiously 
and  intensely  concentrated  in  meaning,  “ the  profitable  or  ser- 
viceable by  wool,”  * that  is  to  say,  by  shepherd  wealth ; hence, 
“pecuniarily,”  rich,  or  serviceable,  and  so  he  passes  at  last 
into  a general  mercantile  deity  ; while  yet  the  cloud  sense  of 
the  wool  is  retained  by  Homer  always,  so  that  he  gives  him 
this  epithet  when  it  would  otherwise  have  been  quite  mean- 
ingless, (in  Iliad,  xxiv.  440,)  when  he  drives  Priam’s  chariot, 
and  breathes  force  into  his  horses,  precisely  as  we  shall  find 
Athena  drive  Diomed  : and  yet  the  serviceable  and  profitable 
sense, — and  something  also  of  gentle  and  soothing  character  in 
the  mere  wool-softness,  as  used  for  dress,  and  religious  rites, 
— is  retained  also  in  the  epithet,  and  thus  the  gentle  and  ser- 
viceable Hermes  is  opposed  to  the  deceitful  one. 

28.  In  connection  with  this  driving  of  Priam’s  chariot,  re° 
member  that  as  Autolycus  is  the  son  of  Hermes  the  Deceiver, 
Myrtilus  (the  Auriga  of  the  Stars)  is  the  son  of  Hermes  the 
Guide.  The  name  Hermes  itself  means  Impulse  ; and  he  is 
especially  the  shepherd  of  the  flocks  of  the  sky,  in  driving, 
or  guiding,  or  stealing  them  ; and  yet  his  great  name,  Ar- 
geiphontes,  not  only— as  in  different  passages  of  the  olden 
poets  — means  “ Shining  Yv^hite,”  which  is  said  of  him  as  being 
himself  the  silver  cloud  lighted  by  the  sun  ; but  “Argus- 
Killer,”  the  killer  of  brightness,  which  is  said  of  him  as  he 

* I am  convinced  that  the  4pi  in  ipiovvtos  is  not  intensitive  ; hnt  re- 
tained from  Zpiov  : but  even  if  I am  wrong  in  thinking  this,  the  mistake 
ys  of  7io  consequence  with  respect  to  the  general  force  of  the  term  as 
meaning  the  profitableness  of  Hermes.  Athena’s  epithet  of  aye\e'ta  has 
a parallel  significance. 


ATHENA  IN  THE  HEAVENS. 


251 


veils  the  sky,  and  especially  the  stars,  which  are  the  eyes  of 
Argus ; or,  literally,  eyes  of  brightness,  Avhicli  Juno,  who  is, 
with  Jupiter,  part  of  the  type  of  highest  heaven,  keeps  in  her 
peacock’s  train.  We  know  that  this  interpretation  is  right, 
from  a passage  in  which  Euripides  describes  the  shield  oi 
Hippomedon,  which  bore  for  its  sign,  “Argus  the  all-seeing’, 
covered  with  eyes ; open  towards  the  rising  of  the  stars,  and 
closed  towards  their  setting.” 

And  thus  Hermes  becomes  the  spirit  of  the  movement  of 
the  sky  or  firmament ; not  merely  the  fast  flying  of  the  transi- 
tory cloud,  but  the  great  motion  of  the  heavens  and  stars 
themselves.  Thus,  in  his  hig;hest  power,  he  corresponds  to 
the  “ primo  mobile  ” of  the  later  Italian  philosophy,  and,  in 
his  simplest,  is  the  guide  of  all  mysterious  and  cloudy  move- 
ment, and  of  all  successful  subtleties.  Perhaps  the  prettiest 
minor  recognition  of  his  character  is  when,  on  the  night  foray 
of  Ulysses  and  Diomed,  Ulysses  wears  the  helmet  stolen  by 
Autolycus,  the  son  of  Hermes. 

29.  The  position  in  the  Greek  mind  of  Hermes  as  the  Lord 
of  cloud  is,  however,  more  mystic  and  ideal  than  that  of  any 
other  deity,  just  on  account  of  the  constant  and  real  presence 
of  the  cloud  itself  under  different  forms,  giving  rise  to  all  kinds 
of  minor  fables.  The  play  of  the  Greek  imagination  in  this 
direction  is  so  wide  and  complex,  that  I cannot  even  give  you 
an  outline  of  its  range  in  my  present  limits.  There  is  first  a 
great  series  of  storm-legends  connected  with  the  family  of  the 
historic  JEolus,  centralized  by  the  story  of  Athamas,  with  his 
two  wives,  “ the  Cloud  ” and  the  “ White  Goddess,”  ending  in 
that  of  Phrixus  and  Helle,  and  of  the  golden  fleece  (which  is 
only  the  cloud-burden  of  Hermes  Eriophoros).  With  this, 
there  is  the  fate  of  Saimoneus,  and  the  destruction  of  Glaucus 
by  his  own  horses  ; all  these  minor  myths  of  storm  concen- 
trating themselves  darkly  into  the  legend  of  Belleroplion  and 
the  Chimera,  in  which  there  is  an  under  story  about  the  vain 
subduing  of  passion  and  treachery,  and  the  end  of  life  in  fad- 
ing melancholy, — which,  I hope,  not  many  of  you  could  un- 
derstand even  were  I to  show  it  you  : (the  merely  physical 
meaning  of  the  Chimsera  is  the  cloud  of  volcanic  lightning, 


253 


THE  QUEEN  OF  THE  AIR , 


connected  wholly  with  earth-fire,  but  resembling  the  heavenly 
cloud  in  its  height  and  its  thunder).  Finally,  in  the  iEolie 
group,  there  is  the  legend  of  Sisyphus,  which  I mean  to  work 
out  thoroughly  by  itself : its  root  is  in  the  position  of  Corinth 
as  ruling  the  isthmus  and  the  two  seas  — the  Corinthian 
Acropolis,  two  thousand  feet  high,  being  the  centre  of  the 
crossing  currents  of  the  winds,  and  of  the  commerce  of  Greece. 
Therefore,  Athena,  and  the  fountain  cloud  Pegasus,  are  more 
closely  connected  with  Corinth  than  even  with  Athens  in  their 
material,  though  not  in  their  moral  power  ; and  Sisyphus 
founds  the  Isthmian  games  in  connection  with  a melancholy 
story  about  the  sea  gods  ; but  he  himself  is  KepStoros  avopuv, 
the  most  “ gaining  ” and  subtle  of  men  ; who,  having  the  key 
of  the  Isthmus,  becomes  the  type  of  transit,  transfer,  or  trade, 
as  such  ; and  of  the  apparent  gain  from  it,  which  is  not  gain  : 
and  this  is  the  real  meaning  of  his  punishment  in  hell — eternal 
toil  and  recoil  (the  modern  idol  of  capital  being,  indeed,  the 
stone  of  Sisyphus  with  a vengeance,  crushing  in  its  recoil). 
But,  throughout,  the  old  ideas  of  the  cloud  power  and  cloud 
feebleness, — the  deceit  of  its  hiding, — and  the  emptiness  of 
its  vanishing, — the  Autolycus  enchantment  of  making  black 
seem  white, — and  the  disappointed  fury  of  Ixion  (taking 
shadow  for  power),  mingle  in  the  moral  meaning  of  this  and 
its  collateral  legends  ; and  give  an  aspect,  at  last,  not  only  of 
foolish  cunning,  but  of  impiety  or  literal  “ idolatry,”  “ imagi- 
nation worship,”  to  the  dreams  of  avarice  and  injustice,  until 
this  notion  of  atheism  and  insolent  blindness  becomes  prin- 
cipal ; and  the  “ Clouds  ” of  Aristophanes,  with  the  personified 
“just”  and  “unjust”  sayings  in  the  latter  part  of  the  play, 
foreshadow,  almost  feature  by  feature,  in  all  that  they  were 
written  to  mock  and  to  chastise,  the  worst  elements  of  the  im- 
pious “Sivos”  and  tumult  in  men’s  thoughts,  which  have  fol- 
lowed on  their  avarice  in  the  present  day,  making  them  alike 
forsake  the  laws  of  their  ancient  gods,  and  misapprehend  or 
reject  the  true  words  of  their  existing  teachers. 

30.  All  this  we  have  from  the  legends  of  the  historic  iEoius 
only ; but,  besides  these,  there  is  the  beautiful  story  of 
Semele,  the  Mother  of  Bacchus.  She  is  the  cloud  with  the 


ATHENA  IN  THE  HEAVENS. 


259 


strength  of  the  vine  in  its  bosom,  consumed  by  the  light 
which  matures  the  fruit ; the  melting  away  of  the  cloud  intc? 
the  clear  air  at  the  fringe  of  its  edges  being  exquisitely  ren- 
dered by  Pindar’s  epithet  for  her,  Semele,  “ with  the  stretched- 
out  hair  ” (ravvcOeipa).  Then  there  is  the  entire  tradition  of 
the  Danaides,  and  of  the  tower  of  Danae  and  golden  shower  ; 
the  birth  of  Perseus  connecting  this  legend  with  that  of  the 
Gorgon s and  Graise,  who  are  the  true  clouds  of  thunderous 
and  ruinous  tempest.  I must,  in  passing,  mark  for  you  that 
the  form  of  the  sword  or  sickle  of  Perseus,  with  which  he  kills 
Medusa,  is  another  image  of  the  whirling  harpy  vortex,  and 
belongs  especially  to  the  sword  of  destruction  or  annihilation  ; 
whence  it  is  given  to  the  two  angels  who  gather  for  destruc- 
tion the  evil  harvest  and  evil  vintage  of  the  earth  (Kev.  xiv. 
15).  I will  collect  afterwards  and  complete  what  I have 
already  written  respecting  the  Pegasean  and  Gorgonian  le- 
gends, noting  here  only  what  is  necessary  to  explain  the  cen- 
tral myth  of  Athena  herself,  who  represents  the  ambient  air, 
which  included  all  cloud,  and  rain,  and  dew,  and  darkness, 
and  peace,  and  wrath  of  heaven.  Let  me  now  try  to  give  you, 
however  briefly,  some  distinct  idea  of  the  several  agencies  of 
this  great  goddess. 

81.  I.  She  is  the  air  giving  life  and  health  to  all  animals. 

II.  She  is  the  air  giving  vegetative  power  to  the  earth. 

HI.  She  is  the  air  giving  motion  to  the  sea,  and  render- 
ing navigation  possible. 

IV.  She  is  the  air  nourishing  artificial  light,  torch  or 

lamplight ; as  opposed  to  that  of  the  sun,  on  one 
hand,  and  of  consuming  * fire  on  the  other. 

V.  She  is  the  air  conveying  vibration  of  sound. 

I will  give  you  instances  of  her  agency  in  all  these  functions. 

32.  First,  and  chiefly,  she  is  air  as  the  spirit  of  life,  giving 
ntality  to  the  blood.  Her  psychic  relation  to  the  vital  force 
in  matter  lies  deeper,  and  we  will  examine  it  afterwards  ; but 
a great  number  of  the  most  interesting  passages  in  Homer 
regard  her  as  flying  over  the  earth  in  local  and  transitory 
strength,  simply  and  merely  the  goddess  of  fresh  air. 

* Not  a scientific,  but  a very  practical  and  expressive  distinction. 


260 


THE  QUEEN  OF  THE  AIR. 


It  is  curious  that  the  British  city  which  has  somewhat  sau 
cily  styled  itself  the  Modern  Athens,  is  indeed  more  under 
her  especial  tutelage  and  favour  in  this  respect  than  perhaps 
any  other  town  in  the  island.  Athena  is  first  simply  what  in 
the  Modern  Athens  you  so  practically  find  her,  the  breeze  of 
the  mountain  and  the  sea ; and  wherever  she  comes,  there  is 
purification,  and  health,  and  power.  The  sea-beach  round 
this  isle  of  ours  is  the  frieze  of  our  Parthenon  ; every  wave 
that  breaks  on  it  thunders  with  Athena’s  voice  ; nay,  when- 
ever you  throw  your  window  wide  open  in  the  morning,  you 
let  in  Athena,  as  wisdom  and  fresh  air  at  the  same  instant  ; 
and  whenever  you  draw  a pure,  long,  full  breath  of  right 
heaven,  you  take  Athena  into  your  heart,  through  your  blood ; 
and,  with  the  blood,  into  the  thoughts  of  your  brain. 

Now  this  giving  of  strength  by  the  air,  observe,  is  mechani- 
cal as  well  as  chemical.  You  cannot  strike  a good  blow  but 
with  your  chest  full ; and  in  hand  to  hand  fighting,  it  is  not 
the  muscle  that  fails  first,  it  is  the  breath ; the  longest- 
breathed  will,  on  the  average,  be  the  victor, — not  the  strong- 
est. Note  how  Shakspeare  always  leans  on  this.  Of  Morti- 
mer, in  “ changing  hardiment  with  great  Glendower : ” — 

“Three  times  they  breathed,  and  three  times  did  they  drink, 
Upon  agreement,  of  swift  Severn’s  hood.” 

And  again,  Hotspur  sending  challenge  to  Prince  Harry 

“That  none  might  draw  short  breath  to-day 
But  I and  Harry  Monmouth.” 

Again,  of  Hamlet,  before  he  receives  his  wound 

“He’s  fat,  and  scant  of  breath.” 

Again,  Orlando  in  the  wrestling  : — 

“ Yes ; I beseech  your  grace 
I am  not  yet  well  breathed.” 

Now  of  all  people  that  ever  lived,  the  Greeks  knew  test 
what  breath  meant,  both  in  exercise  and  in  battle  ; and  there- 
fore the  queen  of  the  air  becomes  to  them  at  once  the  queen 
©f  bodily  strength  in  war ; not  mere  brutal  muscular  strength, 


ATHENA  IN  THE  HEAVENS. 


261 


— that  belongs  to  Ares, — but  the  strength  of  young  lives 
passed  in  pure  air  and  swift  exercise, — Camilla’s  virginal 
force,  that  “flies  o’er  the  unbending  corn,  and  skims  along 
the  main.” 

83.  Now  I will  rapidly  give  you  two  or  three  instances  of 
her  direct  agency  in  this  function.  First,  when  she  wants  to 
make  Penelope  bright  and  beautiful ; and  to  do  away  with 
the  signs  of  her  waiting  and  her  grief.  “Then  Athena  thought 
of  another  thing  ; she  laid  her  into  deep  sleep,  and  loosed  all 
her  limbs,  and  made  her  taller,  and  made  her  smoother,  and 
fatter,  and  whiter  than  swan  ivory ; and  breathed  ambrosial 
brightness  over  her  face  ; and  so  she  left  her  and  went  up  to 
heaven.”  Fresh  air  and  sound  sleep  at  night,  young  ladies  l 
You  see  you  may  have  Athena  for  lady’s  maid  whenever  you 
choose.  Next,  hark  how  she  gives  strength  to  Achilles  when 
he  is  broken  with  fasting  and  grief.  Jupiter  pities  him  and 
says  to  her, — “‘Daughter  mine,  are  you  forsaking  your  own 
soldier,  and  don’t  you  care  for  Achilles  any  more?. see  how 
hungry  and  weak  he  is, — go  and  feed  him  "with  ambrosia.’  So 
he  urged  the  eager  Athena  ; and  she  leaped  down  out  of  heav- 
en like  a harpy  falcon,  shrill  voiced  ; and  she  poured  nectar 
and  ambrosia,  full  of  delight,  into  the  breast  of  Achilles,  that 
his  limbs  might  not  fail  with  famine  : then  she  returned  to  the 
solid  dome  of  her  strong  father.”  And  then  comes  the  great 
passage  about  Achilles  arming — for  which  we  have  no  time. 
But  here  is  again  Athena  giving  strength  to  the  wrh ole  Greek 
army.  She  came  as  a falcon  to  Achilles,  straight  at  him  ; — a 
sudden  drift  of  breeze  ; but  to  the  army  she  must  come  wide- 
ly,— she  sweeps  round  them  all.  “As  when  Jupiter  spreads 
the  purple  rainbow  over  heaven,  portending  battle  or  cold 
storm,  so  Athena,  wrapping  herself  round  with  a purple  cloud, 
stooped  to  the  Greek  soldiers,  and  raised  up  each  of  them.” 
Note  that  purple,  in  Homer’s  use  of  it,  nearly  always  means 
“fiery,”  “full  of  light.”  It  is  the  light  of  the  rainbow,  not 
the  colour  of  it,  which  Homer  means  you  to  think  of. 

34.  But  the  most  curious  passage  of  all,  and  fullest  of  mean- 
ing, is  when  she  gives  strength  to  Menelaus,  that  he  may  stand 
unwearied  against  Hector.  He  prays  to  her  : “ And  blue-eyed 
3 


262' 


THE  QUEEN  OF  THE  AIR 


Athena  was  glad  that  he  prayed  to  her,  first ; and  she  gave 
him  strength  in  his  shoulders,  an.d  in  his  limbs,  and  she  gave 
him  the  courage  ” — of  what  animal,  do  you  suppose  ? Had  it 
been  Neptune  or  Mars,  they  wrould  have  given  him  the  cour- 
age of  a bull,  or  a lion  ; but  Athena  gives  him  the  courage  of 
the  most  fearless  in  attack  of  all  creatures — small  or  great — 
and  very  small  it  is,  but  -wholly  incapable  of  terror, — she  gives 
him  the  courage  of  a fly. 

35.  Now  this  simile  of  Homer’s  is  one  of  the  best  instances 
I can  give  you  of  the  way  in  which  great  writers  seize  truths 
unconsciously  which  are  for  all  time.  It  is  only  recent  science 
which  has  completely  shown  the  perfectness  of  this  minute 
symbol  of  the  power  of  Athena  ; proving  that  the  insect’s 
flight  and  breath  are  co-ordinated  ; that  its  wings  are  actually 
forcing-pumps,  of  which  the  stroke  compels  the  thoracic  res- 
piration ; and  that  it  thus  breathes  and  flies  simultaneously 
by  the  action  of  the  same  muscles,  so  that  respiration  is  car- 
ried on  most  vigorously  during  flight,  “ while  the  air-vessels, 
supplied  by  many  pairs  of  lungs  instead  of  one,  traverse  the 
organs  of  flight  in  far  greater  numbers  than  the  capillary 
blood-vessels  of  our  own  system,  and  give  enormous  and  un- 
tiring muscular  power,  a rapidity  of  action  measured  by  thou- 
sands of  strokes  in  the  minute,  and  an  endurance,  by  miles 
and  hours  of  flight.”  * 

Homer  could  not  have  known  this ; neither  that  the  buzz- 
ing of  the  fly  was  produced  as  in  a wind  instrument,  by  a con- 
stant current  of  air  through  the  trachea.  But  he  had  seen, 
and,  doubtless,  meant  us  to  remember,  the  marvellous  strength 
and  swiftness  of  the  insect’s  flight  (the  glance  of  the  swallow 
itself  is  clumsy  and  slow  compared  to  the  darting  of  common 
house-flies  at  play) ; he  probably  attributed  its  murmur  to  the 
wings,  but  in  this  also  there  was  a type  of  -what  we  shall  pres- 
ently find  recognized  in  the  name  of  Pallas, — the  vibratory 
power  of  the  air  to  convey  sound, — while,  as  a purifying  creat- 
ure, the  fly  holds  its  place  beside  the  old  symbol  of  Athena 
in  Egypt,  the  vulture  ; and  as  a venomous  and  tormenting 
creature,  has  more  than  the  strength  of  the  serpent  in  proporo 
* Ormerod.  Natural  History  of  Wasps . 


ATHENA  IN  THE  HEAVENS. 


263 

tion  to  its  size,  being  thus  entirely  representative  of  the  influ- 
ence of  the  air  both  in  purification  and  pestilence  ; and  its 
courage  is  so  notable  that,  strangely  enough,  forgetting 
Homer’s  simile,  I happened  to  take  the  fly  for  an  expression 
of  the  audacity  of  freedom  in  speaking  of  quite  another  sub- 
ject.* Whether  it  should  be  called  courage,  or  mere  mechan  > 
ical  instinct,  may  be  questioned,  but  assuredly  no  other  ani- 
mal, exposed  to  continual  danger,  is  so  absolutely  without 
sign  of  fear. 

36.  You  will,  perhaps,  have  still  patience  to  hear  two  in- 
stances, not  of  the  communication  of  strength,  but  of  the  per- 
sonal agency  of  Athena  as  the  air.  When  she  comes  down  to 
help  Diomed  against  Ares,  she  does  not  come  to  fight  instead 
of  him,  but  she  takes  his  charioteer’s  place. 

‘ ‘ She  snatched  the  reins,  she  lashed  with  all  her  force, 

And  full  on  Mars  impelled  the  foaming  horse.” 

Ares  is  the  first  to  cast  his  spear ; then,  note  this,  Pope 
says 

“ Pallas  opposed  her  hand,  and  caused  to  glance, 

Far  from  the  car,  the  strong  immortal  lance.” 

She  does  not  oppose  her  hand  in  the  Greek — the  wind  could 
nol  meet  the  lance  straight — she  catches  it  in  her  hand,  and 
throws  it  off.  There  is  no  instance  in  which  a lance  is  so 
parried  by  a mortal  hand  in  all  the  Iliad,  and  it  is  exactly  the 
way  the  wind  would  parry  it,  catching  it,  and  turning  it  aside. 
If  there  are  any  good  rifleshots  here — they  know  something 
about  Athena’s  parrying — and  in  old  times  the  English  mas- 
ters of  feathered  artillery  knew  more  yet.  Compare  also  the 
turning  of  Hector’s  lance  from  Achilles  : Hiad  xx.  439. 

37.  The  last  instance  I will  give  you  is  as  lovely  as  it  is 
subtle.  Throughout  the  Iliad,  Athena  is  herself  the  will  or 
Menis  of  Achilles.  If  he  is  to  be  calmed,  it  is  she  who  calms 
him  ; if  angered,  it  is  she  wdio  inflames  him.  In  the  first 
quarrel  with  Atrides,  when  he  stands  at  pause,  with  the  great 
sword  half  drawn,  “ Athena  came  from  heaven,  and  stood  be?’ 
hind  him,  and  caught  him  by  the  yellow  hair.”  Another  god 

* See  farther  on,  § 148,  pp.  112,  113, 


264 


THE  QUEEN  OF  THE  AIR . 


would  have  stayed  his  hand  upon  the  hilt,  but  Athena  only 
lifts  his  hair.  “.And  he  turned  and  knew  her,  and  her  dread- 
ful eyes  shone  upon  him.”  There  is  an  exquisite  tenderness 
in  this  laying  her  hand  upon  his  hair,  for  it  is  the  talisman  of 
his  life,  vowed  to  his  own  Thessalian  river  if  he  ever  returned 
to  its  shore,  and  cast  upon  Patroclus’  pile,  so  ordaining  that 
there  should  be  no  return. 

38.  Secondly — Athena  is  the  air  giving  vegetative  impulse 
to  the  earth.  She  is  the  wind  and  the  rain — and  yet  more 
the  pure  air  itself,  getting  at  the  earth  fresh  turned  by  spade 
or  plough — and,  above  all,  feeding  the  fresh  leaves ; for 
though  the  Greeks  knew  nothing  about  carbonic  acid,  they 
did  know  that  trees  fed  on  the  air. 

Now,  note  first  in  this,  the  myth  of  the  air  getting  at 
ploughed  ground.  You  know  I told  you  the  Lord  of  all 
labour  by  which  man  lived  wras  Hephsestus  ; therefore  Athena 
adopts  a child  of  his,  and  of  the  Earth, — Erichthonius, — 
literally,  “ the  tearer  up  of  the  ground  ” — who  is  the  head 
(though  not  in  direct  line,)  of  the  kings  of  Attica  ; and  having 
adopted  him,  she  gives  him  to  be  brought  up  by  the  three 
nymphs  of  the  dew.  Of  these,  Aglauros,  the  dweller  in  the 
fields,  is  the  envy  or  malice  of  the  earth ; she  answers  nearly 
to  the  envy  of  Cain,  the  tiller  of  the  ground,  against  his  shep- 
herd brother,  in  her  own  envy  against  her  two  sisters,  Herse, 
the  cloud  dew,  who  is  the  beloved  of  the  shepherd  Mercury  ; 
and  Pandrosos,  the  diffused  dew,  or  dew  of  heaven.  Liter- 
ally, you  have  in  this  myth  the  words  of  the  blessing  of 
Esau — “ Thy  dwelling  shall  be  of  the  fatness  of  the  earth, 
and  of  the  dew  of  heaven  from  above.”  Aglauros  is  for  her 
envy  turned  into  a black  stone  ; and  hers  is  one  of  the  voices, 
- — the  other  being  that  of  Cain, — which  haunts  the  circle  of 
envy  in  the  Purgatory  : — 

“Io  sono  Aglauro,  chi  divenne  sasso.” 

But  to  her  two  sisters,  with  Erichthonius,  (or  the  hero  Erec- 
tileus,)  is  built  the  most  sacred  temple  of  Athena  in  Athens; 
the  temple  to  their  own  dearest  Athena — to  her,  and  to  the 
dew  together  : so  that  it  was  divided  into  two  parts : one, 


ATHENA  IN  THE  HEAVENS. 


265 


the  temple  of  Athena  of  the  city,  and  the  other  that  of  the 
dew.  And  this  expression  of  her  power,  as  the  air  bringing 
the  dew  to  the  hill  pastures,  in  the  central  temple  of  the  cen- 
tral city  of  the  heathen,  dominant  over  the  future  intellectual 
world,  is,  of  all  the  facts  connected  with  her  worship  as  the 
spirit  of  life,  perhaps  the  most  important.  I have  no  time  now 
to  trace  for  you  the  hundredth  part  of  the  different  ways  in 
which  it  bears  both  upon  natural  beauty,  and  on  the  best  or- 
der and  happiness  of  men’s  lives:  I hope  to  follow  out  some 

of  these  trains  of  thought  in  gathering  together  what  I have  to 
say  about  field  herbage  ; but  I must  say  briefly  here  that  the 
great  sign,  to  the  Greeks,  of  the  coming  of  spring  in  the  past- 
ures, was  not,  as  with  us,  in  the  primrose,  but  in  the  various 
flowers  of  the  asphodel  tribe  (of  which  I will  give  you  some 
separate  account  presently) ; therefore  it  is  that  the  earth  an- 
swers with  crocus  flame  to  the  cloud  on  Ida ; and  the  power 
of  Athena  in  eternal  life  is  written  by  the  light  of  the  asphodel 
on  the  Elysian  fields. 

But  farther,  Athena  is  the  air,  not  only  to  the  lilies  of  the 
field,  but  to  the  leaves  of  the  forest.  We  saw  before  the 
reason  why  Hermes  is  said  to  be  the  son  of  Maia,  the  eldest  of 
the  sister  stars  of  spring.  Those  stars  are  called  not  only 
Pleiades,  but  Vergilise,  from  a word  mingling  the  ideas  of  the 
turning  or  returning  of  spring-time  with  the  outpouring  of 
rain.  The  mother  of  Virgil  bearing  the  name  of  Maia,  Virgil 
himself  received  his  name  from  the  seven  stars;  and  he,  in 
forming,  first,  the  mind  of  Dante,  and  through  him  that  of 
Chaucer  (besides  whatever  special  minor  influence  came  from 
the  Pastorals  and  Georgies),  became  the  fountain-head  of  all 
the  best  literary  power  connected  with  the  love  of  vegetative 
nature  among  civilized  races  of  men.  Take  the  fact  for  what 
it  is  worth  ; still  it  is  a strange  seal  of  coincidence,  in  word 
and  in  reality,  upon  the  Greek  dream  of  the  power  over  human 
life,  and  its  purest  thoughts,  in  the  stars  of  spring.  But  the 
first  syllable  of  the  name  of  Virgil  has  relation  also  to  another 
group  of  words,  of  which  the  English  ones,  virtue,  and  virgin, 
bring  down  the  force  to  modern  days.  It  is  a group  contain- 
ing mainly  the  idea  of  “ spring,”  or  increase  of  life  in  vege- 


266 


THE  QUEEN  OF  THE  AIR 


tation — the  rising  of  the  new  branch  of  the  tree  out  of  the 
bud,  and  of  the  new  leaf  out  of  the  ground.  It  involves,  sec- 
ondarily, the  idea  of  greenness  and  of  strength,  but  primarily, 
that  of  living  increase  of  a new  rod  from  a stock,  stem,  or 
root;  (“There  shall  come  forth  a rod  out  of  the  stem  of 
Jesse  ; ”)  and  chiefly  the  stem  of  certain  plants — either  of  the 
rose  tribe,  as  in  the  budding  of  the  almond  rod  of  Aaron  ; or 
of  the  olive  tribe,  which  has  triple  significance  in  this  symbol- 
ism, from  the  use  of  its  oil  for  sacred  anointing,  for  strength 
in  the  gymnasium,  and  for  light.  Hence,  in  numberless  di- 
vided and  reflected  ways,  it  is  connected  with  the  power  of 
Hercules  and  Athena  : Hercules  plants  the  wild  olive,  for  its 
shade,  on  the  course  of  Olympia,  and  it  thenceforward  gives 
the  Olympic  crown,  of  consummate  honour  and  rest ; while 
the  prize  at  the  Panathenaic  games  is  a vase  of  its  oil,  (meaning 
encouragement  to  continuance  of  effort)  ; and  from  the  paint- 
ings on  these  Panathenaio  vases  we  get  the  most  precious  clue 
to  the  entire  character  of  Athena.  Then  to  express  its  propa- 
gation by  slips,  the  trees  from  which  the  oil  was  to  be  taken 
were  called  “ Moriai,”  trees  of  division  (being  all  descendants 
of  the  sacred  one  in  the  Ereclitheum).  And  thus,  in  one  di- 
rection, we  get  to  the  “ children  like  olive  plants  round  about 
thy  table  ” and  the  olive  grafting  of  St.  Paul  ; while  the  use 
of  the  oil  for  anointing  gives  chief  name  to  the  rod  itself 
of  the  stem  of  Jesse,  and  to  all  those  who  were  by  that  name 
signed  for  his  disciples  first  in  Antioch.  Remember,  farther, 
since  that  name  was  first  given,  the  influence  of  the  symbol, 
both  in  extreme  unction,  and  in  consecration  of  priests  and 
kings  to  their  “divine  right;”  and  think,  if  you  can  reach 
with  any  grasp  of  thought,  what  the  influence  on  the  earth 
has  been,  of  those  twisted  branches  whose  leaves  give  grey 
bloom  to  the  hill-sides  under  every  breeze  that  blows  from 
the  midland  sea.  But,  above  and  beyond  all,  think  how 
strange  it  is  that  the  chief  Agonia  of  humanity,  and  the  chief 
giving  of  strength  from  heaven  for  its  fulfilment,  should  have 
been  under  its  night  shadow  in  Palestine. 

39.  Thirdly — Athena  is  the  air  in  its  power  over  the  sea. 

On  the  earliest  Panathenaic  vase  known — the  “Burgon” 


ATHENA  IN  THE  HEAVENS. 


267 


vase  in  the  British  Museum — Athena  has  a dolphin  on  hei 
shield.  The  dolphin  has  two  principal  meanings  in  Greek 
symbolism.  It  means,  first,  the  sea  ; secondarily,  the  ascend- 
ing and  descending  course  of  any  of  the  heavenly  bodies  from 
one  sea  horizon  to  another — the  dolphins’  arching  rise  and 
replunge  (in  a summer  evening,  out  of  calm  sea,  their  black 
backs  roll  round  with  exactly  the  slow  motion  of  a water- 
wheel ; but  I do  not  know  how  far  Aristotle’s  exaggerated  ac- 
count of  their  leaping  or  their  swiftness  has  any  foundation,) 
being  taken  as  a type  of  the  emergence  of  the  sun  or  stars 
from  the  sea  in  the  east,  and  plunging  beneath  in  the  west. 
Hence,  Apollo,  when  in  his  personal  power  he  crosses  the  sea, 
leading  his  Cretan  colonists  to  Pytho,  takes  the  form  of  a dol- 
phin, becomes  Apollo  Delphinius,  and  names  the  founded 
colony  “ Delphi,”  The  lovely  drawing  of  the  Delphic  Apollo 
on  the  liydria  of  the  Vatican  (Le  Normand  and  De  Witte,  vol. 
ii.  p.  6),  gives  the  entire  conception  of  this  myth.  Again,  the 
beautiful  coins  of  Tarentum  represent  Taras  coming  to  found 
the  city,  riding  on  a dolphin,  whose  leaps  and  plunges  have 
partly  the  rage  of  the  sea  in  them,  and  partly  the  spring  of  the 
horse,  because  the  splendid  riding  of  the  Tarentines  had  made 
their  name  proverbial  in  Magna  Grsecia.  The  story  of  Avion 
is  a collateral  fragment  of  the  same  thought ; and,  again,  the 
plunge  before  their  transformation,  of  the  ships  of  iEneas. 
Then,  this  idea  of  career  upon,  or  conquest  of  the  sea,  either 
by  the  creatures  themselves,  or  by  dolphin-like  ships,  (com- 
pare the  Merlin  prophecy, — 

“ They  shall  ride 
Over  ocean  wide 

With  hempen  bridle,  and  horse  of  tree,)  ” 

connects  itself  with  the  thought  of  undulation,  and  of  the  wave- 
power  in  the  sea  itself,  which  is  always  expressed  by  the  ser- 
pentine bodies  either  of  the  sea-gods  or  of  the  sea-horse  ; and 
when  Athena  carries,  as  she  does  often  in  later  work,  a ser- 
pent for  her  shield-sign,  it  is  not  so  much  the  repetition  of 
her  own  yegis-snakes  as  the  farther  expression  of  her  power 
over  the  sea-wave  ; which,  finally,  Virgil  gives  in  its  perfect 


268 


THE  QUEEN  OF  THE  AIR 


unity  with  her  own  anger,  in  the  approach  of  the  serpents 
against  Laocoon  from  the  sea  ; and  then,  finally,  when  her 
own  storm-power  is  fully  put  forth  on  the  ocean  also,  and  the 
madness  of  the  segis-snake  is  given  to  the  wave-snake,  the  sea- 
wave  becomes  the  devouring  hound  at  the  waist  of  Scylla,  and 
Athena  takes  Scylla  for  her  hehnet-crest ; while  yet  her  benef- 
icent and  essential  power  on  the  ocean,  in  making  navigation 
possible,  is  commemorated  in  the  Panathenaic  festival  by  her 
peplus  being  carried  to  the  Erechtheum  suspended  from  the 
mast  of  a ship. 

In  Plate  cxv.  of  vol.  ii.,  Le  Normand,  are  given  two  sides  of 
a vase,  which,  in  rude  and  childish  way,  assembles  most  of 
the  principal  thoughts  regarding  Athena  in  this  relation.  In 
the  first,  the  sunrise  is  represented  by  the  ascending  chariot 
of  Apollo,  foreshortened  ; the  light  is  supposed  to  blind  the 
9yes,  and  no  face  of  the  god  is  seen  (Turner,  in  the  Ulysses 
and  Polyphemus  sunrises,  loses  the  form  of  the  god  in  light, 
giving  the  chariot-horses  only  ; rendering  in  his  own  manner, 
after  2,200  years  of  various  fall  and  revival  of  the  arts,  pre- 
cisely the  same  thought  as  the  old  Greek  potter).  He  ascends 
out  of  the  sea  ; but  the  sea  itself  has  not  yet  caught  the  light. 
In  the  second  design,  Athena  as  the  morning  breeze,  and 
Hermes  as  the  morning  cloud,  fly  over  the  sea  before  the  sun. 
Hermes  turns  back  his  head ; his  face  is  unseen  in  the  cloud, 
as  Apollo’s  in  the  light ; the  grotesque  appearance  of  an  ani- 
mal’s face  is  only  the  cloud-phantasm  modifying  a frequent 
form  of  the  hair  of  Hermes  beneath  the  back  of  his  cap.  Un- 
der the  morning  breeze,  the  dolphins  leap  from  the  rippled 
sea,  and  their  sides  catch  the  light. 

The  coins  of  the  Lucanian  Heracleia  give  a fair  representa- 
tion of  the  helmed  Athena,  as  imagined  in  later  Greek  ark 
with  the  embossed  Scylla. 

40.  Fourthly — Athena  is  the  air  nourishing  artificial  light 
—unconsuming  fire.  Therefore,  a lamp  was  always  kept 
burning  in  the  Erechtheum  ; and  the  torch-race  belongs 
chiefly  to  her  festival,  of  which  the  meaning  is  to  show  the 
danger  of  the  perishing  of  the  light  even  by  excess  of  the  air 
that  nourishes  it ; and  so  that  the  race  is  not  to  the  swift,  bui 


ATHENA  IN  THE  HEAVENS. 


269' 


to  the  wise.  The  household  use  of  her  constant  light  is  sym- 
bolized in  the  lovely  passage  in  the  Odyssey,  where  Ulysses 
and  his  son  move  the  armour  while  the  servants  are  shut  in 
their  chambers,  and  there  is  no  one  to  hold  torches  for  them  ; 
but  Athena  herself,  “ having  a golden  lamp,”  fills  all  the  rooms 
with  light.  Her  presence  in  war-strength  with  her  favourite 
heroes  is  always  shown  by  the  “ unwearied  ” fire  hovering  on 
their  helmets  and  shields  ; and  the  image  gradually  becomes 
constant  and  accepted,  both  for  the  maintenance  of  house- 
hold watchfulness,  as  in  the  parable  of  the  ten  virgins,  or  as 
the  symbol  of  direct  inspiration,  in  the  rushing  wind  and 
divided  flames  of  Pentecost : but,  together  with  this  thought 
of  unconsuming  and  constant  fire,  there  is  always  mingled  in 
the  Greek  mind  the  sense  of  the  consuming  by  excess,  as  ot 
the  flame  by  the  air,  so  also  of  the  inspired  creature  by  its 
own  xire  (thus,  again,  “ the  zeal  of  thine  house  hath  eaten  me 
up  “ my  zeal  hath  consumed  me,  because  of  thine  enemies,” 
and  the  like)  ; and  especially  Athena  has  this  aspect  towards 
the  truly  sensual  and  bodily  strength  ; so  that  to  Ares,  who 
is  himself  insane  and  consuming,  the  opposite  wisdom  seems 
to  be  insane  and  consuming:  “All  we  the  other  gods  have 
thee  against  us,  O Jove  ! when  we  would  give  grace  to  men  : 
for  thou  hast  begotten  the  maid  without  a mind — the  mis- 
chievous creature,  the  doer  of  unseemly  evil.  All  we  obey 
thee,  and  are  ruled  by  thee.  Her  only  thou  wilt  not  resist  in 
anything  she  says  or  does,  because  thou  didst  bear  her — con- 
suming child  as  she  is.” 

41.  Lastly — Athena  is  the  air,  conveying  vibration  of 
sound. 

In  all  the  loveliest  representations  in  central  Greek  art  of 
the  birth  of  Athena,  Apollo  stands  close  to  the  sitting  Jupiter, 
singing,  with  a deep,  quiet  joyfulness,  to  his  lyre.  The  sun 
is  always  thought  of  as  the  master  of  time  and  rhythm,  and 
as  the  origin  of  the  composing  and  inventive  discovery  of 
melody  ; but  the  air,  as  the  actual  element  and  substance  of 
the  voice,  the  prolonging  and  sustaining  power  of  it,  and  the 
symbol  of  its  moral  passion.  Whatever  in  music  is  measured 
and  designed,  belongs  therefore  to  Apollo  and  the  Muses  \ 


270 


THE  QUEEN  OF  THE  AIR 


whatever  is  impulsive  and  passionate,  to  Atliena : hence  liei 
constant  strength  of  voice  or  cry  (as  when  she  aids  the  shout 
of  Achilles)  curiously  opposed  to  the  dumbness  of  Demeter. 
The  Apolline  lyre,  therefore,  is  not  so  much  the  instrument 
producing  sound,  as  its  measurer  and  divider  by  length  or 
tension  of  string  into  given  notes  ; and  I believe  it  is,  in  a 
double  connection  with  its  office  as  a measurer  of  time  or 
motion,  and  its  relation  to  the  transit  of  the  sun  ill  the  sky, 
that  Hermes  forms  it  from  the  tortoise-shell,  which  is  the  im- 
age of  the  dappled  concave  of  the  cloudy  sky.  Thenceforward 
all  the  limiting  or  restraining  modes  of  music  belong  to  the 
Muses ; but  the  passionate  music  is  wind  music,  as  in  the 
Doric  flute.  Then,  when  this  inspired  music  becomes  de- 
graded in  its  passion,  it  sinks  into  the  pipe  of  Pan,  and  the 
double  pipe  of  Marsyas,  and  is  then  rejected  by  Athena. 
The  myth  which  represents  her  doing  so  is  that  she  invented 
the  double  pipe  from  hearing  the  hiss  of  the  Gorgonian  ser- 
pents ; but  when  she  played  upon  it,  chancing  to  see  her  face 
reflected  in  the  water,  she  saw  that  it  was  distorted,  where- 
upon she  threw  down  the  flute,  which  Marsyas  found.  Then, 
the  strife  of  Apollo  and  Marsyas  represents  the  enduring  con- 
test between  music  in  which  the  words  and  thought  lead,  and 
the  lyre  measures  or  melodizes  them,  (which  Pindar  means 
wdien  he  calls  his  hymns  “kings  over  the  lyre,”)  and  music  in 
which  the  words  are  lost,  and  the  wind  or  impulse  leads, — 
generally,  therefore,  between  intellectual,  and  brutal,  or 
meaningless,  music.  Therefore,  when  Apollo  prevails,  he 
flays  Marsyas,  taking  the  limit  and  external  bond  of  his  shape 
from  him,  which  is  death,  without  touching  the  mere  mus- 
cular strength ; yet  shameful  and  dreadful  in  dissolution. 

42.  And  the  opposition  of  these  two  kinds  of  sound  is  com 
linually  dwelt  upon  by  the  Greek  philosophers,  the  real  fact 
at  the  root  of  all  their  teaching  being  this, — that  true  music 
is  the  natural  expression  of  a lofty  passion  for  a right  cause  ; 
that  in  proportion  to  the  kinglyness  and  force  of  any  person- 
ality, the  expression  either  of  its  joy  or  suffering  becomes 
measured,  chastened,  calm,  and  capable  of  interpretation  only 
by  the  majesty  of  ordered,  beautiful,  and  worded  sound.  Ex* 


ATHENA  IN  THE  HEAVENS.  271 

actly  in  proportion  to  the  degree  in  which  we  become  narrow 
in  the  cause  and  conception  of  our  passions,  incontinent  in 
the  utterance  of  them,  feeble  of  perseverance  in  them,  sullied 
or  shameful  in  the  indulgence  of  them,  their  expression  by 
musical  sound  becomes  broken,  mean,  fatuitous,  and  at  last 
impossible  ; the  measured  waves  of  the  air  of  heaven  will  not 
lend  themselves  to  expression  of  ultimate  vice,  it  must  be  for 
ever  sunk  into  discordance  or  silence.  And  since,  as  before 
stated,  every  work  of  right  art  has  a tendency  to  reproduce 
the  ethical  state  which  first  developed  it,  this,  which  of  all  the 
arts  is  most  directly  ethical  in  origin,  is  also  the  most  direct 
in  power  of  discipline  ; the  first,  the  simplest,  the  most  effect- 
ive of  all  instruments  of  moral  instruction ; while  in  the 
failure  and  betrayal  of  its  functions,  it  becomes  the  subtlest 
aid  of  moral  degradation.  Music  is  thus,  in  her  health,  the 
teacher  of  perfect  order,  and  is  the  voice  of  the  obedience  of 
angels,  and  the  companion  of  the  course  of  the  spheres  of 
heaven  ; and  in  her  depravity  she  is  also  the  teacher  of  per- 
fect disorder  and  disobedience,  and  the  Gloria  in  Excelsis  be- 
comes the  Marseillaise.  In  the  third  section  of  this  volume, 
I reprint  two  chapters  from  another  essay  of  mine,  (“  The 
Cestus  of  Aglaia,”)  on  modesty  or  measure,  and  on  liberty, 
containing  farther  reference  to  music  in  her  two  powers ; and 
I do  this  now,  because,  among  the  many  monstrous  and  mis- 
begotten fantasies  which  are  the  spawn  of  modern  licence, 
perhaps  the  most  impishly  opposite  to  the  truth  is  the  con- 
ception of  music  which  has  rendered  possible  the  writing, 
by  educated  persons,  and,  more  strangely  yet,  the  tolerant 
criticism,  of  such  words  as  these  : — “ This  so  persuasive  art  is 
the  only  one  that  has  no  didactic  efficacy , that  engenders  no  emo- 
tions save  such  as  are  without  issue  on  the  side  of  moral  truth , 
that  expresses  nothing  of  God , nothing  of  reason,  nothing  of 
human  liberty.”  I will  not  give  the  author’s  name  ; the  pas- 
sage is  quoted  in  the  Westminster  Review  for  last  January,  p. 
153.  * 

43.  I must  also  anticipate  something  of  what  I have  to  say 
respecting  the  relation  of  the  power  of  Athena  to  organic 
life,  so  far  as  to  note  that  her  name,  Pallas,  probably  refers  to 


272 


THE  QUEEN  OF  TEE  AIR. 


the  quivering  or  vibration  of  the  air ; and  to  its  power, 
whether  as  vital  force,  or  communicated  wave,  over  every  kind 
of  matter,  in  giving  it  vibratory  movement ; first,  and  most 
intense,  in  the  voice  and  throat  of  the  bird  ; which  is  the  air 
incarnate  ; and  so  descending  through  the  various  orders  of 
animal  life  to  the  vibrating  and  semi- voluntary  murmur  of  the 
insect ; and,  lower  still,  to  the  hiss,  or  quiver  of  the  tail,  of 
the  half-lunged  snake  and  deaf  adder ; all  these,  nevertheless, 
being  wholly  under  the  rule  of  Athena  as  representing  either 
breath,  or  vital  nervous  power ; and,  therefore,  also,  in  their 
simplicity,  the  “oaten  pipe  and  pastoral  song,”  which  belong 
to  her  dominion  over  the  asphodel  meadows,  and  breathe  on 
their  banks  of  violets. 

Finally,  is  it  not  strange  to  think  of  the  influence  of  this 
one  power  of  Pallas  in  vibration  ; (we  shall  see  a singular 
mechanical  energy  of  it  presently  in  the  serpent’s  motion  ;)  in 
the  voices  of  war  and  peace  ? How  much  of  the  repose — how 
much  of  the  wrath,  folly,  and  misery  of  men,  has  literally 
depended  on  this  one  power  of  the  air  ; — on  the  sound  of  the 
trumpet  and  of  the  bell — on  the  lark’s  song,  and  the  bee’s 
murmur. 

44.  Such  is  the  general  conception  in  the  Greek  mind  of 
the  physical  power  of  Athena.  The  spiritual  power  associated 
with  it  is  of  two  kinds;— first,  she  is  the  Spirit  of  Life  in 
material  organism ; not  strength  in  the  blood  only,  but 
formative  energy  in  the  clay  : and,  secondly,  she  is  inspired 
and  impulsive  wisdom  in  human  conduct  and  human  art, 
giving  the  instinct  of  infallible  decision,  and  of  faultless 
invention. 

It  is  quite  beyond  the  scope  of  my  present  purpose — and, 
indeed,  will  only  be  possible  for  me  at  all  after  marking  the 
relative  intention  of  the  Apolline  myths — to  trace  for  you  the 
Greek  conception  of  Athena  as  the  guide  of  moral  passion. 
But  I will  at  least  endeavor,  on  some  near  occasion,*  to  define 
some  of  the  actual  truths  respecting  the  vital  force  in  created 
organism,  and  inventive  fancy  in  the  works  of  man,  which  are 

* I have  tried  to  do  this  in  mere  outline  in  the  twe  following  sections 
of  this  volume. 


ATHENA  IN  THE  HEAVENS, 


273 


more  or  less  expressed  by  the  Greeks,  under  the  personality 
of  Athena.  You  would,  perhaps,  hardly  bear  with  me  if  I 
endeavoured  farther  to  show  you — what  is  nevertheless  per- 
fectly true — the  analogy  between  the  spiritual  power  of 
Athena  in  her  gentle  ministry,  yet  irresistible  anger,  with  the 
ministry  of  another  Spirit  whom  we  also,  holding  for  the 
universal  power  of  life,  are  forbidden,  at  our  worst  peril,  to 
quench  or  to  grieve. 

45.  But,  I think,  to-night,  you  should  not  let  me  close, 
without  requiring  of  me  an  answer  on  one  vital  point,  namely, 
how  far  these  imaginations  of  Gods — which  are  vain  to  us— 
were  vain  to  those  who  had  no  better  trust  ? and  what  real 
belief  the  Greek  had  in  these  creations  of  his  own  spirit, 
practical  and  helpful  to  him  in  the  sorrow  of  earth  ? I am 
able  to  answer  you  explicitly  in  this.  The  origin  of  his 
thoughts  is  often  obscure,  and  we  may  err  in  endeavouring  to 
account  for  their  form  of  realization  ; but  the  effect  of  that 
realization  on  his  life  is  not  obscure  at  all.  The  Greek  creed 
was,  of  course,  different  in  its  character,  as  our  own  creed  is, 
according  to  the  class  of  persons  who  held  it.  The  common 
people’s  was  quite  literal,  simple,  and  happy  : their  idea  of 
Athena  was  as  clear  as  a good  Roman  Catholic  peasant’s  idea 
of  the  Madonna.  In  Athens  itself,  the  centre  of  thought  and 
refinement,  Pisistratus  obtained  the  reins  of  government 
through  the  ready  belief  of  the  populace  that  a beautiful 
woman,  armed  like  Athena,  was  the  goddess  herself.  Even 
at  the  close  of  the  last  century  some  of  this  simplicity 
remained  among  the  inhabitants  of  the  Greek  islands ; and 
when  a pretty  English  lady  first  made  her  way  into  the  grotto 
of  Antiparos,  she  was  surrounded,  on  her  return,  by  all 
the  women  of  the  neighbouring  village,  believing  her  to  be 
divine,  and  praying  her  to  heal  them  of  their  sicknesses. 

46.  Then,  secondly,  the  creed  of  the  upper  classes  was  more 
refined  and  spiritual,  but  quite  as  honest,  and  even  more 
forcible  in  its  effect  on  the  life.  You  might  imagine  that  the 
employment  of  the  artifice  just  referred  to  implied  utter  unbe- 
lief in  the  persons  contriving  it ; but  it  really  meant  only  that 
the  more  worldly  of  them  would  play  with  a popular  faith  for 


274  THE  QUEEN  OF  THE  ATE. 

their  own  purposes,  as  doubly-minded  persons  have  often 
done  since,  all  the  while  sincerely  holding  the  same  ideas 
themselves  in  a more  abstract  form  ; while  the  good  and  un- 
worldly men,  the  true  Greek  heroes,  lived  by  their  faith  as 
firmly  as  St.  Louis,  or  the  Cid,  or  the  Chevalier  Bayard. 

47.  Then,  thirdly,  the  faith  of  the  poets  and  artists  was, 
necessarily,  less  definite,  being  continually  modified  by  the 
involuntary  action  of  their  own  fancies  ; and  by  the  necessity 
of  presenting,  in  clear  verbal  or  material  form,  things  of  which 
they  had  no  authoritative  knowledge.  Their  faith  was,  in 
some  respects,  like  Dante’s  or  Milton’s : firm  in  general  con- 
ception, but  not  able  to  vouch  for  every  detail  in  the  forms 
they  gave  it : but  they  went  considerably  farther,  even  in  that 
minor  sincerity,  than  subsequent  poets ; and  strove  with  all 
their  might  to  be  as  near  the  truth  as  they  could.  Pindar 
says,  quite  simply,  1 cannot  think  so-and-so  of  the  Gods. 
It  must  have  been  this  way — it  cannot  have  been  that  way — 
that  the  thing  was  done.”  And  as  late  among  the  Latins  as 
the  days  of  Horace,  this  sincerity  remains.  Horace  is  just  as 
true  and  simple  in  his  religion  as  Wordsworth  ; but  all  power 
of  understanding  any  of  the  honest  classic  poets  has  been 
taken  away  from  most  English  gentlemen  by  the  mechanical 
drill  in  verse  writing  at  school.  Throughout  the  whole  of 
their  lives  afterwards,  they  never  can  get  themselves  quit  of 
the  notion  that  all  verses  were  written  as  an  exercise,  and  that 
Minerva  was  only  a convenient  word  for  the  last  of  an  hex- 
ameter, and  Jupiter  for  the  last  but  one. 

48.  It  is  impossible  that  any  notion  can  be  more  fallacious 
or  more  misleading  in  its  consequences.  Ail  great  song,  from 
the  first  day  when  human  lips  contrived  syllables,  has  been 
sincere  song.  With  deliberate  didactic  purpose  the  tragedi- 
ans— with  pure  and  native  passion  the  lyrists — fitted  their 
perfect  words  to  their  dearest  faiths.  “ Operosa  parvus  Car- 
olina fingo.”  “I,  little  thing  that  I am,  weave  my  laborious 
songs  ” as  earnestly  as  the  bee  among  the  bells  of  thyme  on 
the  Matin  mountains.  Yes,  and  he  dedicates  his  favourite 
pine  to  Diana,  and  he  chants  his  autumnal  hymn  to  the  Faun 
that  guards  his  fields,  and  he  guides  the  noble  youths  and 


ATHENA  IN  THE  HEAVENS. 


275 


maids  of  Rome  in  their  choir  to  Apollo,  and  he  tells  the 
farmer’s  little  girl  that  the  Gods  will  love  her,  though  she  has 
only  a handful  of  salt  and  meal  to  give  them — just  as  earnestly 
as  ever  English  gentleman  taught  Christian  faith  to  English 
youth  in  England’s  truest  days. 

49.  Then,  lastly,  the  creed  of  the  philosophers  or  sages 
varied  according  to  the  character  and  knowledge  of  each 
their  relative  acquaintance  with  the  secrets  of  natural  science 
— their  intellectual  and  sectarian  egotism — and  their  mystic 
or  monastic  tendencies,  for  there  is  a classic  as  well  as  a me- 
diaeval monasticism.  They  ended  in  losing  the  life  of  Greece 
in  play  upon  words  ; but  we  owe  to  their  early  thought  some 
of  the  soundest  ethics,  and  the  foundation  of  the  best  practical 
laws,  yet  known  to  mankind. 

50.  Such  was  the  general  vitality  of  the  heathen  creed  in 
its  strength.  Of  its  direct  influence  on  conduct,  it  is,  as  I 
said,  impossible  for  me  to  speak  now ; only,  remember 
alwa}Ts,  in  endeavouring  to  form  a judgment  of  it,  that  what 
of  good  or  right  the  heathens  did,  they  did  looking  for  no  re- 
ward. The  purest  forms  of  our  own  religion  have  always 
consisted  in  sacrificing  less  things  to  win  greater  ; — time,  to 
win  eternity, — the  world,  to  win  the  skies.  The  order,  “ sell 
that  thou  hast,”  is  not  given  without  the  promise, — “ thou 
shalt  have  treasure  in  heaven  ; ” and  well  for  the  modern 
Christian  if  he  accepts  the  alternative  as  his  Master  left  it — 
and  does  not  practically  read  the  command  and  promise  thus  : 
“ Sell  that  thou  hast  in  the  best  market,  and  thou  shalt  have 
treasure  in  eternity  also.”  But  the  poor  Greeks  of  the  great 
ages  expected  no  reward  from  heaven  but  honour,  and  no  re- 
ward from  earth  but  rest ; — though,  when,  on  those  condi- 
tions, they  patiently,  and  proudly,  fulfilled  their  task  of  the 
granted  day,  an  unreasoning  instinct  of  an  immortal  benedic- 
tion broke  from  their  lips  in  song  : and  they,  even  they,  had 
sometimes  a prophet  to  tell  them  of  a land  “ where  there  is 
sun  alike  by  day,  and  alike  by  night — where  they  shall  need 
no  more  to  trouble  the  earth  by  strength  of  hands  for  daily 
bread — but  the  ocean  breezes  blow  around  the  blessed  island^ 
and  golden  flowers  burn  on  their  bright  trees  for  evermore.” 


a 

ATHENA  KERAM1TIS.* 

(, Athena  in  the  Earth.) 

btudy,  supplementary  to  the  preceding  lecture,  of  the  supposed,  and  actual^ 
relations  of  Athena  to  the  vital  force  in  material  organism. 

51.  It  has  been  easy  to  decipher  approximately  the  Greek 
conception  of  the  physical  power  of  Athena  in  cloud  and  sky, 
because  we  know  ourselves  what  clouds  and  skies  are,  and 
what  the  force  of  the  wind  is  in  forming  them.  But  it  is  not 
at  all  easy  to  trace  the  Greek  thoughts  about  the  power  of 
Athena  in  giving  life,  because  we  do  not  ourselves  know 
clearly  what  life  is,  or  in  what  way  the  air  is  necessary  to  it, 
or  what  there  is,  besides  the  air,  shaping  the  forms  that  it  is 
put  into.  And  it  is  comparatively  of  small  consequence  to 
ttnd  out  what  the  Greeks  thought  or  meant,  until  we  have  de- 
termined what  we  ourselves  think,  or  mean,  when  we  trans- 
late the  Greek  word  for  “ breathing  ” into  the  Latin-English 
word  “ spirit.” 

52.  But  it  is  of  great  consequence  that  you  should  fix  in 
your  minds — and  hold,  against  the  baseness  of  mere  material- 
ism on  the  one  hand,  and  against  the  fallacies  of  controversial 
speculation  on  the  other — the  certain  and  practical  sense  ol 
this  word  “spirit  — the  sense  in  which  you  all  know  that 
its  reality  exists,  as  the  power  which  shaped  you  into  your 
shape,  and  by  which  you  love,  and  hate,  when  you  have  re- 
ceived that  shape.  You  need  not  fear,  on  the  one  hand,  that 
either  the  sculpturing  or  the  loving  power  can  ever  be  beaten 
down  by  the  philosophers  into  a metal,  or  evolved  by  them 
into  a gas  : but  on  the  other  hand,  take  care  that  you  your- 
selves, in  trying  to  elevate  your  conception  of  it,  do  not  lose 

* “Athena,  fit  for  being  made  into  pottery.”  I coin  the  expression 
$43  a counterpart  of  yrj  -rrapOevia,  “ Clay  intact.” 


ATHENA  IN  THE  EARTH. 


277 


its  truth  in  a dream,  or  even  in  a word.  Beware  always  of  com 
tending  for  words  : you  will  find  them  not  easy  to  grasp,  if 
you  know  them  in  several  languages.  This  very  word,  which 
is  so  solemn  in  your  mouths,  is  one  of  the  most  doubtful.  In 
Latin  it  means  little  more  than  breathing,  and  may  mean 
merely  accent ; in  French  it  is  not  breath,  but  wit,  and  our 
neighbours  are  therefore  obliged,  even  in  their  most  solemn 
expressions,  to  say  “wit”  when  we  say  “ghost.”  In  Greek, 
“ pneuma,”  the  word  we  translate  “ ghost,”  means  either  wind 
or  breath,  and  the  relative  word  “psyche”  has,  perhaps,  a 
more  subtle  power  ; yet  St.  Paul’s  words  “ pneumatic  body 5 
and  “ psychic  body  ” involve  a difference  in  his  mind  which 
no  words  will  explain.  But  in  Greek  and  in  English,  and  in 
Saxon  and  in  Hebrew,  and  in  every  articulate  tongue  of  hu- 
manity the  “ spirit  of  man  ” truly  means  his  passion  and 
virtue,  and  is  stately  according  to  the  height  of  his  concep- 
tion, and  stable  according  to  the  measure  of  his  endurance. 

53.  Endurance,  or  patience,  that  is  the  central  sign  of  spirit ; 
a constancy  against  the  cold  and  agony  of  death  ; and  as, 
physically,  it  is  by  the  burning  power  of  the  air  that  the  heat 
of  the  flesh  is  sustained,  so  this  Athena,  spiritually,  is  the 
queen  of  all  glowing  virtue,  the  unconsuming  fire  and  inner 
lamp  of  life.  And  thus,  as  Hephaestus  is  lord  of  the  fire  of 
the  hand  and  Apollo  of  the  fire  of  the  brain,  so  Athena  of  the 
fire  of  the  heart ; and  as  Hercules  wears  for  his  chief  armour 
the  skin  of  the  Nemean  lion,  his  chief  enemy,  whom  he  slew  ; 
and  Apollo  has  for  his  highest  name  “the  Pythian,”  from  his 
chief  enemy,  the  Python,  slain  ; so  Athena  bears  always  on 
her  breast  the  deadly  face  of  her  chief  enemy  slain,  the  Gor- 
gonian  cold,  and  venomous  agony,  that  turns  living  men  to 
stone. 

54  And  so  long  as  you  have  that  fire  of  the  heart  within 
you,  and  know  the  reality  of  it,  you  need  be  under  no  alarm 
as  to  the  possibility  of  its  chemical  or  mechanical  analysis. 
The  philosophers  are  very  humorous  in  their  ecstasy  of  hope 
about  it ; but  the  real  interest  of  their  discoveries  in  this  di- 
rection is  very  small  to  human-kind.  It  is  quite  true  that 
the  tympanum  of  the  ear  vibrates  under  sound,  and  that  the 


278 


THE  QUEEN  OF  THE  AIR. 


surface  of  the  water  in  a ditch  vibrates  too : but  the  ditch 
hears  nothing  for  all  that ; and  my  hearing  is  still  to  me  as 
blessed  a mystery  as  ever,  and  the  interval  between  the  ditch 
and  me,  quite  as  great.  If  the  trembling  sound  in  my  ears 
was  once  of  the  marriage-bell  which  began  my  happiness,  and 
is  now  of  the  passing-bell  which  ends  it,  the  difference  be- 
tween those  two  sounds  to  me  cannot  be  counted  by  the 
number  of  concussions.  There  have  been  some  curious  spec- 
ulations lately  as  to  the  conveyance  of  mental  consciousness 
by  “ brain- waves.”  What  does  it  matter  how  it  is  conveyed  ? 
The  consciousness  itself  is  not  a wave.  It  may  be  accom- 
panied here  or  there  by  any  quantity  of  quivers  and  shakes, 
up  or  down,  of  anything  you  can  find  in  the  universe  that  is 
shakeable— what  is  that  to  me?  My  friend  is  dead,  and  my 
— according  to  modern  views — vibratory  sorrow  is  not  one 
whit  less,  or  less  mysterious,  to  me,  than  my  old  quiet  one. 

55.  Beyond,  and  entirely  unaffected  by,  any  questionings 
of  this  kind,  there  are,  therefore,  two  plain  facts  which  we 
should  all  know  : first,  that  there  is  a power  which  gives  their 
several  shapes  to  things,  or  capacities  of  shape  ; and,  secondly, 
a power  which  gives  them  their  several  feelings,  or  capacities 
of  feeling  ; and  that  we  can  increase  or  destroy  both  of  these 
at  our  will.  By  care  and  tenderness,  we  can  extend  the  range 
of  lovely  life  in  plants  and  animals  ; by  our  neglect  and 
cruelty,  wTe  can  arrest  it,  and  bring  pestilence  in  its  stead. 
Again,  by  right  discipline  we  can  increase  our  strength  of 
noble  will  and  passion,  or  destroy  both.  And  whether  these 
two  forces  are  local  conditions  of  the  elements  in  which  they 
appear,  or  are  part  of  a great  force  in  the  universe,  out  of 
which  they  are  taken,  and  to  which  they  must  be  restored,  is 
not  of  the  slightest  importance  to  us  in  dealing  with  them ; 
neither  is  the  manner  of  their  connection  with  light  and  air. 
What  precise  meaning  we  ought  to  attach  to  expressions  such 
as  that  of  the  prophecy  to  the  four  winds  that  the  dry  bones 
might  be  breathed  upon,  and  might  live,  or  why-Mie  presence 
of  the  vital  power  should  be  dependent  on  the  chemical  action 
of  the  air,  and  its  awful  passing  away  materially  signified  by 
the  rendering  up  of  that  breath  or  ghost,  we  cannot  at  pre^ 


ATHENA  IN  THE  EARTH. 


279 


ent  know,  and  need  not  at  any  time  dispute.  What  we  as- 
suredly know  is  that  the  states  of  life  and  death  are  different, 
and  the  first  more  desirable  than  the  other,  and  by  effort  at- 
tainable, whether  we  understand  being  “born  of  the  spirit” 
to  signify  having  the  breath  of  heaven  in  our  flesh,  or  its 
power  in  our  hearts. 

56.  As  to  its  power  on  the  body,  I will  endeavor  to  tell  you, 
having  been  myself  much  led  into  studies  involving  necessary 
reference  both  to  natural  science  and  mental  phenomena,  what, 
at  least,  remains  to  us  after  science  has  done  its  worst ; — what 
the  Myth  of  Athena,  as  a Formative  and  Decisive  power— a 
Spirit  of  Creation  and  Volition,  must  eternally  mean  for  all  of 
us. 

57.  It  is  now  (I  believe  I may  use  the  strong  word)  “ ascer- 
tained ” that  heat  and  motion  are  fixed  in  quantity,  and  meas- 
urable in  the  portions  that  we  deal  with.  We  can  measure 
out  portions  of  power,  as  we  can  measure  portions  of  space ' 
while  yet,  as  far  as  we  know,  space  may  be  infinite,  and  forci 
infinite.  There  may  be  heat  as  much  greater  than  the  sun’s, 
as  the  sun’s  heat  is  greater  than  a candle’s  ; and  force  as  much 
greater  than  the  force  by  which  the  world  swings,  as  that  is 
greater  than  the  force  by  which  a cobweb  trembles.  Now,  on 
heat  and  force,  life  is  inseparably  dependent ; and  I believe, 
also,  on  a form  of  substance,  which  the  philosophers  call 
“protoplasm.”  I wish  they  would  use  English  instead  of 
Greek  words.  When  I want  to  know  why  a leaf  is  green,  they 
tell  me  it  is  coloured  by  “ chlorophyll,”  which  at  first  sounds 
very  instructive  ; but  if  they  would  only  say  plainly  that  a 
leaf  is  coloured  green  by  a thing  which  is  called  “ green  leaf,”' 
we  should  see  more  precisely  how  far  we  had  got.  However, 
it  is  a curious  fact  that  life  is  connected  with  a cellular  struct- 
ure called  protoplasm,  or,  in  English,  “ first  stuck  together  : ” 
whence,  conceivably  through  deuteroplasms,  or  second  stick- 
ings,  and  tritoplasms,  or  third  stickings,*  we  reach  the  high- 

* Or,  perhaps,  we  may  be  indulged  with  one  consummating  gleam  of 
“ glycasm  ’ — visible  “ Sweetness,”— according  to  the  good  old  monk 
“ Full  moon,”  or  “All  moonshine.  ” I cannot  get  at  his  original  Greek, 
but  am  content  with  M.  Durand’s  clear  French  (Manuel  d’leonograpliie 


280 


THE  QUEEN  OF  THE  AIR. 


est  plastic  phase  in  the  human  pottery,  which  differs  from 
common  chinaware,  primarily,  by  a measurable  degree  of  heat, 
developed  in  breathing,  which  it  borrows  from  the  rest  of  the 
universe  while  it  lives,  and  which  it  as  certainly  returns  to 
the  rest  of  the  universe,  when  it  dies. 

58.  Again,  with  this  heat  certain  assimilative  powers  are 
connected,  which  the  tendency  of  recent  discovery  is  to  sim- 
plify more  and  more  into  modes  of  one  force  ; or  finally  into 
mere  motion,  communicable  in  various  states,  but  not  de- 
structible. We  will  assume  that  science  has  done  its  utmost ; 
and  that  every  chemical  or  animal  force  is  demonstrably  re- 
solvable into  heat  or  motion,  reciprocally  changing  into  each 
other.  I would  myself  like  better,  in  order  of  thought,  to 
consider  motion  as  a mode  of  heat  than  heat  as  a mode  ot 
motion  : still,  granting  that  we  have  got  thus  far,  we  have  yet 
to  ask,  What  is  heat  ? or  what  motion  ? What  is  this  “primo 
mobile,”  this  transitional  power,  in  which  all  things  live,  and 
move,  and  have  their  being  ? It  is  by  definition  something 
different  from  matter,  and  we  may  call  it  as  we  choose — 
‘‘first  cause,”  or  “ first  light,”  or  “ first  heat;”  but  we  can 
show  no  scientific  proof  of  its  not  being  personal,  and  coin- 
ciding with  the  ordinary  conception  of  a supporting  spirit  in 
all  things. 

59.  Still,  it  is  not  advisable  to  apply  the  word  “ spirit  ” or 
<£  breathing  ” to  it,  while  if  is  only  enforcing  chemical  affini- 
ties ; but,  when  the  chemical  affinities  are  brought  under  the 
influence  of  the  air,  and  of  the  sun’s  heat,  the  formative  force 
enters  an  entirely  different  phase.  It  does  not  now  merely 
crystallize  indefinite  masses,  but  it  gives  to  limited  portions 
of  matter  the  power  of  gathering,  selectively,  other  elements 
proper  to  them,  and  binding  these  elements  into  their  own 
peculiar  and  adopted  form. 

This  force,  now  properly  called  life,  or  breathing,  or  spirit, 

Chretienne,  Paris,  1845):  — “Lorsque  vous  aurez  fait  le^poroplasme,  et 
esquisse  un  visage,  vous  ferez  les  chairs  avec  le  glycasme  dont  nous 
avons  donne  la  recette.  Chez  les  vieillards,  vous  indiquerez  les  rides, 
et  ohez  les  jeunes  gens,  les  angles  des  yeux.  C’est  ainsi  que  l’on  faP 
les  chairs,  suivant  FarlSelinos.;, 


ATHENA  IN  THE  EARTH 


281 


Is  continually  creating  its  own  shells  of  definite  shape  out  of 
the  wreck  round  it : and  this  is  what  I meant  by  saying,  in 
the  “Ethics  of  the  Dust : ” — “you  may  always  stand  by  form 
against  force.”  For  the  mere  force  of  junction  is  not  spirit  \ 
but  the  power  that  catches  out  of  chaos  charcoal,  water,  lime 
or  what  not  and  fastens  them  down  into  a given  form,  is  prop- 
erly called  “ spirit ; ” and  we  shall  not  diminish,  but  strengthen 
our  conception  of  this  creative  energy  by  recognizing  its  pres- 
ence in  lower  states  of  matter  than  our  own  ; — such  recogni- 
tion being  enforced  upon  us  by  a delight  we  instinctively  re- 
ceive from  all  the  forms  of  matter  which  manifest  it ; and  yet 
more,  by  the  glorifying  of  those  forms,  in  the  parts  of  them 
that  are  most  animated,  with  the  colours  that  are  pleasantest 
to  our  senses.  The  most  familiar  instance  of  this  is  the  best, 
and  also  the  most  wonderful : the  blossoming  of  plants. 

60.  The  Spirit  in  the  plant, — that  is  to  sa}^,  its  power  of 
gathering  dead  matter  out  of  the  wreck  round  it,  and  shaping 
it  into  its  own  chosen  shape, — is  of  course  strongest  at  the 
moment  of  its  flowering,  for  it  then  not  only  gathers,  but 
forms,  with  the  greatest  energy. 

And  where  this  Life  is  in  it  at  full  power,  its  form  becomes 
invested  -with  aspects  that  are  chiefly  delightful  to  our  own 
human  passions ; namely,  first,  with  the  loveliest  outlines  of 
shape  ; and,  secondly,  with  the  most  brilliant  phases  of  the 
primary  colours,  blue,  yellow,  and  red  or  -white,  the  unison  of 
all ; and,  to  make  it  all  more  strange,  this  time  of  peculiar 
and  perfect  glory  is  associated  with  relations  of  the  plants  or 
blossoms  to  each  other,  correspondent  to  the  joy  of  love  in 
human  creatures,  and  having  the  same  object  in  the  continu- 
ance of  the  race.  Only,  with  respect  to  plants,  as  animals,  we 
are  wrong  in  speaking  as  if  the  object  of  this  strong  life  were 
only  the  bequeathing  of  itself.  The  flower  is  the  end  or 
proper  object  of  the  seed,  not  the  seed  of  the  flower.  The 
reason  for  seeds  is  that  flowers  may  be  ; ne  t the  reason  of 
flowers  that  seeds  may  be.  The  flower  itself  is  the  creature 
which  the  spirit  makes  ; only,  in  connection  with  its  perfect- 
ness, is  placed  the  giving  birth  to  its  successor. 

61.  The  main  fact,  then,  about  a flower  is  that  it  is  the  part 


282 


THE  QUEEN  OF  THE  AIR. 


of  the  plant’s  form  developed  at  the  moment  of  its  intensest 
life  : and  this  inner  rapture  is  usually  marked  externally  for 
us  by  the  flush  of  one  or  more  of  the  primary  colours.  What 
the  character  of  the  flower  shall  be,  depends  entirely  upon  the 
portion  of  the  plant  into  which  this  rapture  of  spirit  has  been 
put.  Sometimes  the  life  is  put  into  its  outer  sheath,  and  then 
the  outer  sheath  becomes  white  and  pure,  and  full  of  strength 
and  grace  ; sometimes  the  life  is  put  into  the  common  leaves, 
just  under  the  blossom,  and  they  become  scarlet  or  purple  ; 
sometimes  the  life  is  put  into  the  stalks  of  the  flower,  and 
they  flush  blue  ; sometimes  into  its  outer  enclosure  or  calyx  ; 
mostly  into  its  inner  cup  ; but,  in  all  cases,  the  presence  of 
the  strongest  life  is  asserted  by  characters  in  which  the  human 
sight  takes  pleasure,  and  which  seem  prepared  with  distinct 
reference  to  us,  or  rather,  bear,  in  being  delightful,  evidence 
of  having  been  produced  by  the  power  of  the  same  spirit  as 
^ur  own. 

62.  And  we  are  led  to  feel  this  still  more  strongly,  because 
ail  the  distinctions  of  species, * both  in  plants  and  animals,  ap- 
pear to  have  similar  connection  with  human  character.  What- 
ever the  origin  of  species  may  be,  or  however  those  species, 
once  formed,  may  be  influenced  by  external  accident,  the 
groups  into  which  birth  or  accident  reduce  them  have  distinct 
relation  to  the  spirit  of  man.  It  is  perfectly  possible,  and 
ultimately  conceivable,  that  the  crocodile  and  the  lamb  may 
have  descended  from  the  same  ancestral  atom  of  protoplasm ; 
and  that  the  physical  laws  of  the  operation  of  calcareous  slime 
and  of  meadow  grass,  on  that  protoplasm,  may  in  time  have 
developed  the  opposite  natures  and  aspects  of  the  living 
frames  ; but  the  practically  important  fact  for  us  is  the  exist- 
ence of  a power  which  creates  that  calcareous  earth  itself  ; — 
which  creates,  that  separately — and  quartz,  separately ; and 

* The  facts  on  which  I am  about  to  dwell  are  in  nowise  antagonistic 
to  the  theories  which  Mr.  Darwin’s  unwearied  and  unerring  investiga- 
tions are  every  day  rendering  more  probable.  The  sesthetic  relations 
\>f  species  are  independent  of  their  origin.  Nevertheless,  it  has  always 
geemed  to  me,  in  what  little  work  I have  done  upon  organic  forms,  as 
if  the  species  mocked  us  by  their  deliberate  imitation  of  each  othe! 
when  they  met : yet  did  not  pass  one  into  another. 


ATHENA  IN  THE  EARTH. 


283 


gold,  separately ; and  charcoal,  separately ; and  then  so  di- 
rects the  relation  of  these  elements  as  that  the  gold  shall  de- 
stroy the  souls  of  men,  by  being  yellow  ; and  the  charcoal 
destroy  their  souls  by  being  hard  and  bright ; and  the  quartz 
represent  to  them  an  ideal  purity  ; and  the  calcareous  earth, 
soft,  shall  beget  crocodiles,  and  dry  and  hard,  sheep  ; and 
that  the  aspects  and  qualities  of  these  two  products,  crocodiles 
and  lambs,  shall  be,  the  one  repellent  to  the  spirit  of  man,  the 
other  attractive  to  it,  in  a quite  inevitable  way ; representing 
to  him  states  of  moral  evil  and  good  ; and  becoming  myths 
to  him  of  destruction  or  redemption,  and,  in  the  most  literal 
sense,  “words”  of  God. 

G3.  And  the  force  of  these  facts  cannot  be  escaped  from  by 
the  thought  that  there  are  species  innumerable,  passing  into 
each  other  by  regular  gradations,  out  of  which  we  choose 
what  we  most  love  or  dread,  and  say  they  wrere  indeed  pre- 
pared for  us.  Species  are  not  innumerable  ; neither  are  they 
now  connected  by  consistent  gradation.  They  touch  at  cer- 
tain points  only  ; and  even  then  are  connected,  when  we  ex- 
amine them  deeply,  in  a kind  of  reticulated  way,  not  in  chains, 
but  in  chequers  ; also,  however  connected,  it  is  but  by  a touch 
of  the  extremities,  as  it  were,  and  the  characteristic  form  of  the 
species  is  entirely  individual.  The  rose  nearly  sinks  into  a 
grass  in  the  sanguisorba ; but  the  formative  spirit  does  not 
the  less  clearly  separate  the  ear  of  wheat  from  the  dog-rose, 
and  oscillate  with  tremulous  constancy  round  the  central 
forms  of  both,  having  each  their  due  relation  to  the  mind  of 
man.  The  great  animal  kingdoms  are  connected  in  the  same 
■way.  The  bird  through  the  penguin  drops  towards  the  fish, 
and  the  fish  in  the  cetacean  reascends  to  the  mammal,  yet 
there  is  no  confusion  of  thought  possible  between  the  perfect 
forms  of  an  eagle,  a trout,  and  a war-horse,  in  their  relations 
to  the  elements,  and  to  man. 

61.  Now  we  have  two  orders  of  animals  to  take  some  note 
of  in  connection  with  Athena,  and  one  vast  order  of  plants, 
which  will  illustrate  this  matter  very  sufficiently  for  us. 

The  orders  of  animals  are  the  serpent  and  the  bird  ; the 
serpent,  in  which  the  breath  or  spirit  is  less  than  in  any  other 


284 


THE  QUEEN  OF  THE  AIR 


creature,  and  the  earth-power  greatest : — the  bird,  in  which 
the  breath  or  spirit  is  more  full  than  in  any  other  creature, 
and  the  earth  power  least. 

65.  We  will  take  the  bird  first.  It  is  little  more  than  a 
drift  of  the  air  brought  into  form  by  plumes  ; the  air  is  in  all 
its  quills,  it  breathes  through  its  whole  frame  and  flesh,  and 
glows  with  air  in  its  flying,  like  blown  flame  : it  rests  upon 
the  air,  subdues  it,  surpasses  it,  outraces  it ; — is  the  air,  con- 
scious of  itself,  conquering  itself,  ruling  itself. 

Also,  into  the  throat  of  the  bird  is  given  the  voice  of  the 
air.  All  that  in  the  wind  itself  is  weak,  wild,  useless  in  sweet- 
ness, is  knit  together  in  its  song.  As  we  may  imagine  the 
wild  form  of  the  cloud  closed  into  the  perfect  form  of  the 
bird’s  wings,  so  the  wild  voice  of  the  cloud  into  its  ordered 
and  commanded  voice  ; unwearied,  rippling  through  the  clear 
heaven  in  its  gladness,  interpreting  all  intense  passion  through 
the  soft  spring  nights,  bursting  into  acclaim  and  rapture  oi 
choir  at  daybreak,  or  lisping  and  twittering  among  the  boughs 
and  hedges  through  heat  of  day,  like  little  winds  that  only  make 
the  cowslip  bells  shake,  and  ruffle  the  petals  of  the  wild  rose. 

66.  Also,  upon  the  plumes  of  the  bird  are  put  the  colours  of 
the  air  : on  these  the  gold  of  the  cloud,  that  cannot  be  gathered 
by  any  covetousness  ; the  rubies  of  the  clouds,  that  are  not 
the  price  of  Athena,  but  are  Athena ; the  vermilion  of  the 
cloud-bar,  and  the  flame  of  the  cloud-crest,  and  the  snow  of 
the  cloud,  and  its  shadow,  and  the  melted  blue  of  the  deep 
wells  of  the  sky — all  these,  seized  by  the  creating  spirit,  and 
woven  by  Athena  herself  into  films  and  threads  of  plume  ; 
with  w^ave  on  wave  following  and  fading  along  breast,  and 
throat,  and  opened  wings,  infinite  as  the  dividing  of  the  foam 
and  the  sifting  of  the  sea-sand  ; — even  the  white  down  of 
the  cloud  seeming  to  flutter  up  between  the  stronger  plumes, 
seen,  but  too  soft  for  touch. 

And  so  the  Spirit  of  the  Air  is  put  into,  and  upon,  this 
created  form  ; and  it  becomes,  through  twenty  centuries,  the 
symbol  of  divine  help,  descending,  as  the  Fire,  to  speak,  but 
as  the  Dove,  to  bless. 

67.  Next,  in  the  serpent,  we  approach  the  source  of  a groujj 


ATHENA  IN  THE  EARTH. 


2S5 

of  myths,  world-wide,  founded  on  great  and  common  human 
instincts,  respecting  which  I must  note  one  or  two  points 
which  bear  intimately  on  all  our  subject.  For  it  seems  to 
me  that  the  scholars  who  are  at  present  occupied  in  interpre- 
tation of  human  myths  have  most  of  them  forgotten  that 
there  are  any  such  things  as  natural  myths  ; and  that  the 
dark  sayings  of  men  may  be  both  difficult  to  read,  and  not 
always  worth  reading  ; but  the  dark  sayings  of  nature  will 
probably  become  clearer  for  the  looking  into,  and  will  very 
certainly  be  worth  reading.  And,  indeed,  all  guidance  to  the 
right  sense  of  the  human  and  variable  myths  will  probably 
depend  on  our  first  getting  at  the  sense  of  the  natural  and 
invariable  ones.  The  dead  hieroglyph  may  have  meant  this 
or  that — the  living  hieroglyph  means  always  the  same  ; but 
remember,  it  is  just  as  much  a hieroglyph  as  the  other  ; nay, 
more,— a “sacred  or  reserved  sculpture,”  a thing  with  an 
inner  language.  The  serpent  crest  of  the  king’s  crown,  or  of 
the  god’s,  on  the  pillars  of  Egypt,  is  a mystery ; but  the  ser- 
pent itself,  gliding  past  the  pillar’s  foot,  is  it  less  a mystery  ? 
Is  there,  indeed,  no  tongue,  except  the  mute  forked  flash 
from  its  lips,  in  that  running  brook  of  horror  on  the  ground  ? 

68.  Why  that  horror?  We  all  feel  it,  yet  how  imagi- 
native it  is,  how  disproportioned  to  the  real  strength  of  the 
creature ! There  is  more  poison  in  an  ill-kept  drain, — in  a 
pool  of  dish  washings  at  a cottage-door,  than  in  the  deadliest 
asp  of  ‘Nile.  Every  back-yard  which  you  look  down  into  from 
the  railway,  as  it  carries  you  out  by  Vauxliall  or  Deptford, 
holds  its  coiled  serpent : all  the  walls  of  those  ghastly  suburbs 
are  enclosures  of  tank  temples  for  serpent-worship  ; yet  you 
feel  no'  horror  in  looking  down  into  them,  as  you  would  if 
you  saw  the  livid  scales,  and.  lifted  head.  There  is  more 
7enom,  mortal,  inevitable,  in  a single  word,  sometimes,  or  in 
the  gliding  entrance  of  a wordless  thought,  than  ever  “ vanti 
Libia  con  sua  rena.”  But  that  horror  is  of  the  myth,  not  of 
the  creature.  There  are  myriads  lower  than  this,  and  more 
loathsomej  in  the  scale  of  being  ; the  links  between  dead 
matter  and  animation  drift  everywhere  unseen.  But  it  is  the 
strength  of  the  base  element  that  is  so  dreadful  in  the  ser* 


286 


THE  QUEEN  OF  THE  AIN. 


pent ; it  is  the  very  omnipotence  of  the  earth.  That  rivulet 
of  smooth  silver — how  does  it  flow,  think  you  ? It  literally 
rows  on  the  earth,  with  every  scale  for  an  oar  ; it  bites  the 
dust  with  the  ridges  of  its  body.  Watch  it,  when  it  moves 
slowly  : — A wave,  but  without  wind  ! a current,  but  with  no 
fall ! all  the  body  moving  at  the  same  instant,  yet  some  of  it 
to  one  side,  some  to  another,  or  some  forward,  and  the  rest 
of  the  coil  backwards ; but  all  with  the  same  calm  will  and 
equal  way — no  contraction,  no  extension  ; one  soundless, 
causeless,  march  of  sequent  rings,  and  spectral  procession  of 
spotted  dust,  with  dissolution  in  its  fangs,  dislocation  in  its 
coils.  Startle  it  ; — the  winding  stream  will  become  a twisted 
arrow  the  wave  of  poisoned  life  will  lash  through  the  grass 
like  a cast  lance.*  It  scarcely  breathes  with  its  one  lung 
(the  other  shrivelled  and  abortive)  ; it  is  passive  to  the  sun 
and  shade,  and  is  cold  or  hot  like  a stone  ; yet  “ it  can  out- 
climb  the  monkey,  outswim  the  fish,  outleap  the  zebra,  out- 
wrestle  the  athlete,  and  crush  the  tiger.”  f It  is  a divine 
hieroglyph  of  the  demoniac  power  of  the  earth, — of  the  entire 
earthly  nature.  As  the  bird  is  the  clothed  power  of  the  air,  so 
this  is  the  clothed  power  of  the  dust ; as  the  bird  the  symbol 
of  the  spirit  of  life,  so  this  of  the  grasp  and  sting  of  death. 

69.  Hence  the  continual  change  in  the  interpretation  put 
upon  it  in  various  religions.  As  the  worm  of  corruption,  it  is 
the  mightiest  of  all  adversaries  of  the  gods — the  special  ad- 

* I cannot  understand  this  swift  forward  motion  of  serpents.  The 
seizure  of  prey  by  the  constrictor,  though  invisibly  swift,  is  quite  simple  in 
mechanism  ; it  is  simply  the  return  to  its  coil  of  an  opened  watch  spring, 
and  is  just  as  instantaneous.  But  the  steady  and  continuous  motion, 
without  a visible  fulcrum  (for  the  whole  body  moves  at  the  same  in- 
stant. and  I have  often  seen  even  small  snakes  glide  as  fast  as  I could 
walk),  seems  to  involve  a vibration  of  the  scales  quite  too  rapid  to  be 
conceived.  The  motion  of  the  crest  and  dorsal  fin  o?  the  hippocampus, 
which  is  one  of  the  intermediate  types  between  serpent  and  fish,  per- 
haps gives  some  resemblance  of  it,  dimly  visible,  for  the  quivering 
turns  the  fin  into  a mere  mist.  The  entrance  of  the  two  barbs  of  a bee’a 
sting  by  alternate  motion,  “the  teeth  of  one  barb  acting  as  a fulcrum 
for  the  other,”  must  be  something  like  the  serpent  motion  on  a small 
scale. 

j Richard  Owen, 


ATHENA  IN  THE  EARTH . 


28^ 


versary  of  their  light  and  creative  power — Python  against 
Apollo.  As  the  power  of  the  earth  against  the  air,  Uie  giants 
are  serpent-bodied  in  the  Giganto-machia  ; but  as  the  power 
of  the  earth  upon  the  seed — consuming  it  into  new  life  (“that 
which  thou  sowest  is  not  quickened  except  it  die  ”) — serpents 
sustain  the  chariot  of  the  spirit  of  agriculture. 

70.  Yet,  on  the  other  hand,  there  is  a power  in  the  earth 
to  take  away  corruption,  and  to  purify,  (hence  the  very  fact 
of  burial,  and  many  uses  of  earth,  only  lately  known)  ; and  in 
this  sense,  the  serpent  is  a healing  spirit, — the  representative 
of  iEsculapius,  and  of  Hygieia  ; and  is  a sacred  earth-type  in 
the  temple  of  the  Dew  — being  there  especially  a symbol  of 
the  native  earth  of  Athens ; so  that  its  departure  from  the 
temple  was  a sign  to  the  Athenians  that  they  were  to  leave 
their  homes.  And  then,  lastly,  as  there  is  a strength  and 
dealing  in  the  earth,  no  less  than  the  strength  of  air,  so  there 
is  conceived  to  be  a wisdom  of  earth  no  less  than  a wisdom 
of  the  spirit  ; and  when  its  deadly  power  is  killed,  its  guiding 
power  becomes  true  ; so  that  the  Python  serpent  is  killed  at 
Delphi,  where  yet  the  oracle  is  from  the  breath  of  the  earth. 

71.  You  must  remember,  however,  that  in  this,  as  in  every 
other  instance,  I take  the  myth  at  its  central  time.  This  is 
only  the  meaning  of  the  serpent  to  the  Greek  mind  which 
could  conceive  an  Athena.  Its  first  meaning  to  the  nascent 
eyes  of  men,  and  its  continued  influence  over  degraded  races, 
are  subjects  of  the  most  fearful  mystery.  Mr.  Fergusson  has 
just  collected  the  principal  evidence  bearing  on  the  matter  in 
a work  of  very  great  value,  and  if  you  read  his  opening  chap- 
ters, they  will  put  you  in  possession  of  the  circumstances 
needing  chiefly  to  be  considered.  I cannot  touch  upon  any  of 
ihem  here,  except  only  to  point  out  that,  though  the  doctrine 
A the  so-called  “ corruption  of  human  nature,”  asserting  that 
there  is  nothing  but  evil  in  humanity,  is  just  as  blasphemous 
and  false  as  a doctrine  of  the  corruption  of  physical  nature 
would  be,  asserting  there  was  nothing  but  evil  in  the  earth,— 
there  is  yet  the  clearest  evidence  of  a disease,  plague,  or  ere* 
tinous  imperfection  of  development,  hitherto  allowed  to  pre 
vail  against  the  greater  part  of  the  races  of  men  ; and  this  iu 


288 


THE  QUEEN  OF  THE  AIR. 


monstrous  ways,  more  full  of  mystery  than  the  serpent-being 
itself.  I have  gathered  for  you  to-night  only  instances  of 
what  is  beautiful  in  Greek  religion  ; but  even  in  its  best  time 
there  were  deep  corruptions  in  other  phases  of  it,  and  de- 
graded forms  of  many  of  its  deities,  ail  originating  in  a mis- 
understood worship  of  the  principle  of  life;  while  in  tlie  re- 
ligions of  lower  races,  little  else  than  these  corrupted  forms 
of  devotion  can  be  found  ; — all  having  a strange  and  dreadful 
consistency  with  each  other,  and  infecting  Christianity,  even 
at  its  strongest  periods,  with  fatal  terror  of  doctrine,  and 
ghastliness  of  symbolic  conception,  passing  through  fear  into 
frenzied  grotesque,  and  thence  into  sensuality. 

In  the  Psalter  of  St.  Louis  itself,  half  of  its  letters  are 
twisted  snakes  ; there  is  scarcely  a wreathed  ornament,  em- 
ployed in  Christian  dress,  or  architecture,  which  cannot  be 
traced  back  to  the  serpent’s  coil  ; and  there  is  rarely  a piece 
of  monkish  decorated  writing  in  the  world,  that  is  not  tainted 
with  some  ill-meant  vileness  of  grotesque — nay,  the  very  leaves 
of  the  twisted  ivy-pattern  of  the  fourteenth  century  can  be 
followed  back  to  wreaths  for  the  foreheads  of  bacchanalian 
gods.  And  truly,  it  seems  to  me,  as  I gather  in  my  mind  the 
evidences  of  insane  religion,  degraded  art,  merciless  war, 
sullen  toil,  detestable  pleasure,  and  vain  or  vile  hope,  in  which 
the  nations  of  the  world  have  lived  since  first  they  could  bear 
record  of  themselves- — it  seems  to  me,  I say,  as  if  the  race 
itself  were  still  half-serpent,  not  extricated  yet  from  its  clay ; 
a lacertine  breed  of  bitterness — the  glory  of  it  emaciate  with 
cruel  hunger,  and  blotted  with  venomous  stain  : and  the 
track  of  it,  on  the  leaf  a glittering  slime,  and  in  the  sand  a 
useless  furrow. 

72.  There  are  no  myths,  therefore,  by  which  the  moral 
Istate  and  fineness  of  intelligence  of  different  races  can  be  so 
deeply  tried  or  measured,  as  by  those  of  the  serpent  and  the 
bird  ; both  of  them  having  an  especial  relation  to  the  kind  of 
remorse  for  sin,  or  grief  in  fate,  of  which  the  national  mind? 
that  spoke  by  them  had  been  capable.  The  serpent  and  vult- 
ure are  alike  emblems  of  immortality  and  purification  among 
races  which  desired  to  be  immortal  and  pure  ; and  as  they 


ATHENA  IN  THE  EARTH 


289 


recognize  their  own  misery,  the  serpent  becomes  to  them  the 
scourge  of  the  Furies,  and  the  vulture  finds  its  eternal  prey  in 
their  breast.  The  bird  long  contests  among  the  Egyptians 
with  the  still  received  serpent  symbol  of  power.  But  the 
Draconian  image  of  evil  is  established  in  the  serpent  Apap  ; 
while  the  bird’s  wings,  with  the  globe,  become  part  of  a better 
symbol  of  deity,  and  the  entire  form  of  the  vulture,  as  an  em- 
blem of  purification,  is  associated  with  the  earliest  conception 
of  Athena.  In  the  type  of  the  dove  with  the  olive  branch,  the 
conception  of  the  spirit  of  Athena  in  renewed  life  prevailing 
over  ruin,  is  embodied  for  the  whole  of  futurity  ; while  the 
Greeks,  to  whom,  in  a happier  climate  and  higher  life  than 
that  of  Egypt,  the  vulture  symbol  of  cleansing  became  unin- 
telligible, took  the  eagle,  instead,  for  their  hieroglyph  oi 
supreme  spiritual  energy,  and  it  thenceforward  retains  its 
hold  on  the  human  imagination,  till  it  is  established  among 
Christian  myths  as  the  expression  of  the  most  exalted  form  of 
evangelistic  teaching.  The  special  relation  of  Athena  to  her 
favourite  bird  we  will  trace  presently  : the  peacock  of  Hera, 
and  dove  of  Aphrodite,  are  comparatively  unimportant  myths : 
but  the  bird  power  is  soon  made  entirely  human  by  the 
Greeks  in  their  flying  angel  of  victory  (partially  human,  with 
modified  meaning  of  evil,  in  the  Harpy  and  Siren)  ; and 
thenceforward  it  associates  itself  with  the  Hebrew  cherubim, 
and  has  had  the  most  singular  influence  on  the  Christian  re- 
ligion by  giving  its  wings  to  render  the  conception  of  angels 
mysterious  and  untenable,  and  check  rational  endeavour  to 
determine  the  nature  of  subordinate  spiritual  agency  ; while 
yet  it  has  given  to  that  agency  a vague  poetical  influence  of 
the  highest  value  in  its  own  imaginative  way. 

73.  But  with  the  early  serpent  worship  there  was  associated 
another — that  of  the  groves — of  which  you  will  also  find  the 
evidence  exhaustively  collected  in  Mr.  Fergusson’s  work. 
This  tree-worship  may  have  taken  a dark  form  when  asso» 
ciated  with  the  Draconian  one  ; or  opposed,  as  in  Judea,  to  a 
purer  faith  ; but  in  itself,  I believe,  it  was  always  healthy,  and 
though  it  retains  little  definite  hieroglyphic  power  in  subse- 
quent religion,  it  becomes,  instead  of  symbolic,  real ; the 


290 


TEE  QUEEN  OF  THE  AIR 


flowers  and  trees  are  themselves  beheld  and  beloved  with  a 
half-worshipping  delight,  which  is  always  noble  and  health- 
ful. 

And  it  is  among  the  most  notable  indications  of  the  volition 
of  the  animating  power,  that  we  find  the  ethical  signs  of  good 
and  evil  set  on  these  also,  as  well  as  upon  animals  ; the  venom 
of  the  serpent,  and  in  some  respects  its  image  also,  being  as- 
sociated even  with  the  passionless  growth  of  the  leaf  out  of 
the  ground  ; while  the  distinctions  of  species  seem  appointed 
with  more  definite  ethical  address  to  the  intelligence  of  man 
as  their  material  products  become  more  useful  to  him. 

74.  I can  easily  show  this,  and,  at  the  same  time,  make  clear 
the  relation  to  other  plants  of  the  flowers  which  especially  be- 
long to  Athena,  by  examining  the  natural  myths  in  the  groups 
of  the  plants  which  would  be  used  at  any  country  dinner,  over 
which  Athena  would,  in  her  simplest  household  authority, 
cheerfully  rule,  here,  in  England.  Suppose  Horace’s  favourite 
dish  of  beans,  with  the  bacon  ; potatoes  ; some  savoury  stuf- 
fing of  onions  and  herbs  with  the  meat ; celery,  and  a radish 
or  two,  with  the  eheese  ; nuts  and  apples  for  dessert,  and 
brown  bread. 

75.  The  beans  are,  from  earliest  time,  the  most  important 
and  interesting  of  the  seeds  of  the  great  tribe  of  plants  from 
which  came  the  Latin  and  French  name  for  all  kitchen  vege- 
tables,— things  that  are  gathered  with  the  hand — podded 
seeds  that  cannot  be  reaped,  or  beaten,  or  shaken  down,  but 
must  be  gathered  green.  “ Leguminous  ” plants,  all  of  them 
having  flowers  like  butterflies,  seeds  in  (frequently  pendent) 
pods, — “Isetum  siliqua  quassante  legumen  ” — smooth  and  ten- 
der leaves,  divided  into  many  minor  ones  ; strange  adjuncts  oi 
tendril,  for  climbing  (and  sometimes  of  thorn) ; — exquisitely 
sweet,  yet  pure,  scents  of  blossom,  and  almost  always  harm- 
less, if  not  serviceable,  seeds.  It  is,  of  all  tribes  of  plants,  the 
most  definite  ; its  blossoms  being  entirely  limited  in  their 
parts,  and  not  passing  into  other  forms.  It  is  also  the  most 
usefully  extended  in  range  and  scale  ; familar  in  the  height  of 
the  forest — acacia,  laburnum,  Judas-tree  ; familiar  in  the  sown 
field — bean  and  vetch  and  pea ; familiar  in  the  pasture — ir 


ATHENA  IN  THE  EARTH. 


291 


every  form  of  clustered  clover  and  sweet  trefoil  tracery ; the 
most  entirety  serviceable  and  human  of  all  orders  of  plants. 

76.  Next,  in  the  potato,  we  have  the  scarcely  innocent 
underground  stem  of  one  of  a tribe  set  aside  for  evil ; having 
the  deadly  nightshade  for  its  queen,  and  including  the  hen- 
bane, the  witch’s  mandrake,  and  the  worst  natural  curse  of 
modern  civilization — tobacco.*  And  the  strange  thing  about 
this  tribe  is,  that  though  thus  set  aside  for  evil,  they  are  not  a 
group  distinctly  separate  from  those  that  are  happier  in 
function.  There  is  nothing  in  other  tribes  of  plants  like  the 
form  of  the  bean  blossom  ; but  there  is  another  family  with 
forms  and  structure  closely  connected  with  this  venomous 
one.  Examine  the  purple  and  yellow  bloom  of  the  common 
hedge  nightshade  ; you  will  find  it  constructed  exactty  like 
some  of  the  forms  of  the  cyclamen  ; and,  getting  this  clue 
you  will  find  at  last  the  whole  poisonous  and  terrible  group  to 
be — sisters  of  the  primulas  ! 

The  nightshades  are,  in  fact,  primroses  with  a curse  upon 
them  ; and  a sign  set  in  their  petals,  by  which  the  deadly  and 
condemned  flowers  may  always  be  known  from  the  innocent 
ones, — that  the  stamens  of  the  nightshades  are  between  the 
lobes,  and  of  the  primulas,  opposite  the  lobes,  of  the  corolla. 

77.  Next,  side  by  side,  in  the  celery  and  radish,  you  have 
the  two  great  groups  of  umbelled  and  cruciferous  plants ; 
alike  in  conditions  of  rank  among  herbs  : both  flowering  in 
clusters  ; but  the  umbelled  group,  flat,  the  crucifers,  in  spires  : 
— both  of  them  mean  and  poor  in  the  blossom,  and  losing 
what  beauty  they  have  by  too  close  crowding  : — both  of  them 
having  the  most  curious  influence  on  human  character  in  the 
temperate  zones  of  the  earth,  from  the  days  of  the  parsley 
crown,  and  hemlock  drink,  and  mocked  Euripidean  chervil, 
until  now  : but  chiefly  among  the  northern  nations,  being  es< 
pecially  plants  that  are  of  some  humble  beauty,  and  (the 
crucifers)  of  endless  use,  when  they  are  chosen  and  cultivated  ; 
but  that  run  to  wild  waste,  and  are  the  signs  of  neglected 

* It  is  not  easy  to  estimate  the  demoralizing  effeet  on  the  youth  o4 
Europe  of  the  cigar,  in  enabling  them  to  pass  their  time  happily  in  idle* 
oess. 


THE  QUEEN  OF  THE  AIR. 


ground,  in  their  rank  or  ragged  leaves,  and  meagre  stalks,  and 
pursed  or  podded  seed  clusters.  Capable,  even  under  cultiva- 
tion, of  no  perfect  beauty,  though  reaching  some  subdued  de- 
lightfulness in  the  lady’s  smock  and  the  wallflower ; for  the 
most  part,  they  have  every  floral  quality  meanly,  and  in  vain, 
— they  are  white,  without  purity ; golden,  without  precious-? 
ness  ; redundant,  without  richness  ; divided,  without  fineness  ; 
massive,  without  strength  ; and  slender,  without  grace.  Yet 
think  over  that  useful  vulgarity  of  theirs  ; and  of  the  relations 
of  German  and  English  peasant  character  to  its  food  of  kraut 
and  cabbage,  (as  of  Arab  character  to  its  food  of  palm-fruit.) 
and  you  will  begin  to  feel  what  purposes  of  the  forming  spirit 
are  in  these  distinctions  of  species. 

78.  Next  we  take  the  nuts  and  apples, — the  nuts  represent- 
ing one  of  the  groups  of  catkined  trees,  whose  blossoms  are 
only  tufts  and  dust ; and  the  other,  the  rose  tribe,  in  which 
fruit  and  flower  alike  have  been  the  types,  to  the  highest  races 
of  men,  of  all  passionate  temptation,  or  pure  delight,  from  the 
coveting  of  Eve  to  the  crowning  of  the  Madonna,  above  the 

“ Eosa  sempiterna, 

Che  si  dilata,  rigrada,  e ridole 
Odor  di  lode  al  Sol.” 

We  have  no  time  now  for  these,  we  must  go  on  to  the  hum- 
blest group  of  all,  yet  the  most  wonderful,  that  of  the  grass, 
which  has  given  us  our  bread ; and  from  that  wre  will  go  back 
to  the  herbs. 

79.  The  vast  family  of  plants  which,  under  rain,  make  the 
earth  green  for  man,  and,  under  sunshine,  give  him  bread, 
and,  in  their  springing  in  the  early  year,  mixed  'with  their 
native  flowers,  have  given  us  (far  more  than  the  new  leaves  of 
trees)  the  thought  and  word  of  “ spring,”  divide  themselves 
broadly  into  three  great  groups — the  grasses,  sedges,  and 
rushes.  The  grasses  are  essentially  a clothing  for  healthy  and 
pure  ground,  watered  by  occasional  rain,  but  in  itself  dry, 
and  fit  for  all  cultivated  pasture  and  corn.  They  are  dis- 
tinctively plants  with  round  and  jointed  stems,  which  have 
\ong  green  flexible  leaves,  and  heads  of  seed,  independently 


ATHENA  IN  THE  EARTH. 


293 

emerging  from  them.  The  sedges  are  essentially  the  clothing 
of  waste  and  more  or  less  poor  or  uncultivable  soils,  coarse  in 
their  structure,  frequently  triangular  in  stem — hence  called 
‘•acute”  by  Virgil — and  with  their  heads  of  seed  not  extricated 
from  their  leaves.  Now,  in  both  the  sedges  and  grasses,  the 
blossom  has  a common  structure,  though  undeveloped  in  the 
sedges,  but  composed  always  of  groups  of  double  husks, 
which  have  mostly  a spinous  process  in  the  centre,  sometimes 
projecting  into  a long  awn  or  beard  ; this  central  process  be- 
ing characteristic  also  of  the  ordinary  leaves  of  mosses,  as  if  a 
moss  were  a kind  of  ear  of  corn  made  permanently  green  on 
the  ground,  and  with  a new  and  distinct  fructification.  But 
the  rushes  differ  wholly  from  the  sedge  and  grass  in  their 
blossom  structure.  It  is  not  a dual  cluster,  but  a twice  three- 
fold one,  so  far  separate  from  the  grasses,  and  so  closely  con- 
nected with  a higher  order  of  plants,  that  I think  you  will  find 
it  convenient  to  group  the  rushes  at  once  with  that  higher 
order,  to  which,  if  you  will  for  the  present  let  me  give  the 
general  name  of  Drosidae,  or  dew-plants,  it  will  enable  me  to 
say  what  I have  to  say  of  them  much  more  shortly  and  clearly. 

80.  These  Drosidae,  then,  are  plants  delighting  in  inter- 
rupted moisture — moisture  which  comes  either  partially  or  at 
certain  seasons — into  dry  ground.  They  are  not  water-plants  ; 
but  the  signs  of  water  resting  among  dry  places.  Many  of 
the  true  w^ater-plants  have  triple  blossoms,  with  a small  triple 
calyx  holding  them  ; in  the  Drosidae,  the  floral  spirit  passes 
into  the  calyx  also,  and  the  entire  flower  becomes  a six-rayed 
star,  bursting  out  of  the  stem  laterally,  as  if  it  were  the  first 
of  flowers,  and  had  made  its  way  to  the  light  by  force  through 
the  unwilling  green.  They  are  often  required  to  retain 
moisture  or  nourishment  for  the  future  blossom  through  long 
times  of  drought ; and  this  they  do  in  bulbs  under  ground,  of 
wrhich  some  become  a rude  and  simple,  but  most  wholesome, 
food  for  man. 

81.  So  now,  observe,  you  are  to  divide  the  whole  family  of  the 
herbs  of  the  field  into  three  great  groups — Drosidae,  Carices,* 

* I think  Carex  will  be  found  ultimately  better  that  Cyperus  for  the  gen- 
eric name,  being  the  Virgilian  word,  and  representing  a larger  sub  species 

5 


: 294 


THE  QUEEN  OF  THE  AIR. 


Graminese  — dew-plants,  sedges,  and  grasses.  Then,  the 
Drosidse  are  divided  into  five  great  orders — lilies,  aspho- 
dels, amaryllids,  irids,  and  rushes.  No  tribes  of  flowers 
have  had  so  great,  so  varied,  or  so  healthy  an  influence 
on  man  as  this  great  group  of  Drosidse,  depending,  not  so 
much  on  the  whiteness  of  some  of  their  blossoms,  or  the 
radiance  of  others,  as  on  the  strength  and  delicacy  of  the 
substance  of  their  petals  ; enabling  them  to  take  forms  of 
faultless  elastic  curvature,  either  in  cups,  as  the  crocus,  or 
expanding  bells,  as  the  true  lily,  or  heath-like  bells,  as  the 
hyacinth,  or  bright  and  perfect  stars,  like  the  star  of  Bethlehem, 
or,  when  they  are  affected  by  the  strange  reflex  of  the  serpent 
nature  which  forms  the  labiate  group  of  all  flowers,  closing 
into  forms  of  exquisitely  fantastic  symmetry  in  the  gladiolus. 
Put  by  their  side  their  Nereid  sisters,  the  water-lilies,  and  }rou 
have  in  them  the  origin  of  the  loveliest  forms  of  ornamental 
design,  and  the  most  powerful  floral  myths  yet  recognized 
among  human  spirits,  born  by  the  streams  of  Ganges,  Nile, 
Arno,  and  Avon. 

82.  For  consider  a little  what  each  of  those  five  tribes* 
Aas  been  to  the  spirit  of  man.  First,  in  their  nobleness  : 
the  Lilies  gave  the  lily  of  the  Annunciation  ; the  Asphodels, 
the  flower  of  the  Elysian  fields  ; the  Irids,  the  fleur-de-lys  of 
chivalry  ; and  the  Amaryllids,  Christ’s  lily  of  the  field  : while 
the  rush,  trodden  always  under  foot,  became  the  emblem  of 
humility.  Then  take  each  of  the  tribes,  and  consider  the  ex- 
tent of  their  lower  influence.  Perdita’s  “ The  crown  imperial, 
lilies  of  all  kinds,”  are  the  first  tribe  ; which,  giving  the  type 
of  perfect  purity  in  the  Madonna’s  lily,  have,  by  their  lovely 
form,  influenced  the  entire  decorative  design  of  Italian  sacred 
art ; while  ornament  of  war  was  continually  enriched  by  the 
curves  of  the  triple  petals  of  the  Florentine  “giglio,”  and 
French  fleur-de-lys  ; so  that  it  is  impossible  to  count  their  in. 

* Take  this  rough  distinction  of  the  four  tribes  : — Lilies,  superior 
ovary,  white  seeds  ; Asphodels,  superior  ovary,  black  seeds  ; Irids,  in- 
ferior ovary,  style  (typically)  rising  into  central  crest  ; Amaryllids, 
inferior  ovary,  stamens  (typically)  joined  in  central  cup.  Then  tlw 
pushes  are  a dark  group,  through  which  they  stoop  to  the  grasses. 


ATHENA  IN  THE  EAUT3. 


295 


fiuence  for  good  in  the  middle  ages,  partly  as  a symbol  of 
womanly  character,  and  partly  of  the  utmost  brightness  and 
refinement  of  chivalry  in  the  city  which  was  the  flower  of 
cities. 

Afterwards,  the  group  of  the  turban -lilies,  or  tulips,  did 
some  mischief,  (their  splendid  stains  having  made  them  the 
favourite  caprice  of  florists  ;)  but  they  may  be  pardoned  all 
such  guilt  for  the  pleasure  they  have  given  in  cottage  gardens, 
and  are  yet  to  give,  when  lowly  life  may  again  be  possible 
among  us ; and  the  crimson  bars  of  the  tulips  in  their  trim 
beds,  with  their  likeness  in  crimson  bars  of  morning  above 
them,  and  its  dew  glittering  heavy,  globed  in  their  glossy  cups, 
may  be  loved  better  than  the  gray  nettles  of  the  ash  heap, 
under  gray  sky,  unveined  by  vermilion  or  by  gold. 

83.  The  next  great  group,  of  the  Asphodels,  divides  itself 
also  into  twTo  principal  families  ; one,  in  wdiich  the  flowers  are 
like  stars,  and  clustered  characteristically  in  balls,  though 
opening  sometimes  into  looser  heads  ; and  the  other,  in  which 
the  flowers  are  in  long  bells,  opening  suddenly  at  the  lips,  and 
clustered  in  spires  on  a long  stem,  or  drooping  from  it,  when 
bent  by  their  weight. 

The  star-group,  of  the  squills,  garlics,  and  onions,  has  al- 
ways caused  me  great  wonder.  I cannot  understand  why  its 
beauty,  and  serviceableness,  should  have  been  associated  with 
the  rank  scent  which  has  been  really  among  the  most  power- 
ful means  of  degrading  peasant  life,  and  separating  it  from 
that  of  the  higher  classes. 

The  belled  group,  of  the  hyacinth  and  convallaria,  is  as 
delicate  as  the  other  is  coarse  : the  unspeakable  azure  light 
along  the  ground  of  the  wood  hyacinth  in  English  spring  ; 
the  grape  hyacinth,  which  is  in  south  France,  as  if  a cluster 
of  grapes  and  a hive  of  honey  had  been  distilled  and  com- 
pressed together  into  one  small  boss  of  celled  and  beaded 
blue  ; the  lilies  of  the  valley  everywhere,  in  each  sweet  and 
wild  recess  of  rocky  lands  ; — count  the  influences  of  these  on 
childish  and  innocent  life  ; then  measure  the  mythic  power 
of  the  hyacinth  and  asphodel  as  connected  with  Greek 
thoughts  of  immortality ; finally  take  their  useful  and  nour- 


296 


THE  QUEEN  OF  THE  AIR. 


ishing  power  in  ancient  and  modem  peasant  life,  and  it  will 
be  strange  it*  you  do  not  feel  what  fixed  relation  exists  be- 
tween the  agency  of  the  creating  spirit  in  these,  and  in  ua 
wTho  live  by  them. 

84.  It  is  impossible  to  bring  into  any  tenable  compass  foi 
our  present  purpose,  even  hints  of  the  human  influence  of  the 
two  remaining  orders  of  Amaryllids  and  Irids; — only  note 
this  generally,  that  while  these  in  northern  countries  share 
with  the  Primulas  the  fields  of  spring,  it  seems  that  in  Greece, 
the  primulacese  are  not  an  extended  tribe,  while  the  crocus, 
narcissus,  and  Amaryllis  lutea,  the  ‘‘lily  of  the  field”  (I  sus- 
pect also  that  the  flower  whose  name  we  translate  “violet” 
was  in  truth  nn  Iris)  represented  to  the  Greek  the  first  com- 
ing of  the  breath  of  life  on  the  renewed  herbage  ; and  became 
in  his  thoughts  the  true  embroidery  of  the  saffron  robe  of 
Athena.  Later  in  the  year,  the  dianthus  (which,  though  be- 
longing to  an  entirely  different  race  of  plants,  has  yet  a strange 
look  of  having  been  made  out  of  the  grasses  by  turning  tire 
sheath-membrane  at  the  root  of  their  leaves  into  a flower.) 
seems  to  scatter,  in  multitudinous  families,  its  crimson  stars 
far  and  wide.  But  the  golden  lily  and  crocus,  together  with 
the  asphodel,  retain  always  the  old  Greek’s  fondest  thoughts 
— they  are  only  “ golden  ” flowers  that  are  to  burn  on  the 
trees,  and  float  on  the  streams  of  paradise. 

85.  I have  but  one  tribe  of  plants  more  to  note  at  our 
country  feasts — the  savoury  herbs  ; but  must  go  a little  out 
of  my  way  to  come  at  them  rightly.  All  flowers  whose  petals 
are  fastened  together,  and  most  of  those  whose  petals  are 
loose,  are  best  thought  of  first  as  a kind  of  cup  or  tube  open- 
ing at  the  mouth.  Sometimes  the  opening  is  gradual,  as  in 
the  convolvulus  or  campanula  ; oftener  there  is  a distinct 
change  of  direction  between  the  tube  and  expanding  lip,  as 
in  the  primrose  : or  even  a contraction  under  the  lip,  making 
the  tube  into  a narrow-necked  phial  or  vase,  as  in  the  heaths, 
but  the  general  idea  of  a tube  expanding  into  a quatrefoil* 
cinquefoil,  or  sixfoil,  will  embrace  most  of  the  forms. 

86.  Now  it  is  easy  to  conceive  that  flowers  of  this  kind, 
growing  in  close  clusters,  may,  in  process  of  time,  have  ex- 


ATHENA  IN  THE  EARTH. 


297 


tended  their  outside  petals  rather  than  the  interior  ones  (as 
the  outer  flowers  of  the  clusters  of  many  umbellifers  actually 
do),  and  thus,  elongated  and  variously  distorted  forms  have 
established  themselves  ; then  if  the  stalk  is  attached  to  the 
side  instead  of  the  base  of  the  tube,  its  base  becomes  a spur, 
and  thus  all  the  grotesque  forms  of  the  mints,  violets,  and 
larkspurs,  gradually  might  be  composed.  But,  however  this 
may  be,  there  is  one  great  tribe  of  plants  separate  from  the 
rest,  and  of  which  the  influence  seems  shed  upon  the  rest  in 
different  degrees  : and  these  would  give  the  impression,  not 
so  much  of  having  been  developed  by  change,  as  of  being 
stamped  with  a character  of  their  own,  more  or  less  serpen- 
tine or  dragon-like.  And  I think  you  will  find  it  convenient 
to  call  these  generally,  Draconidce  ; disregarding  their  present 
ugly  botanical  name,  which  I do  not  care  even  to  write  once— 
you  may  take  for  their  principal  types  the  Foxglove,  Snap- 
dragon, and  Calceolaria ; and  you  will  find  they  all  agree  in 
a tendency  to  decorate  themselves  by  spots,  and  with  bosses 
or  swollen  places  in  their  leaves,  as  if  they  had  been  touched 
by  poison.  The  spot  of  the  Foxglove  is  especially  strange, 
because  it  draws  the  colour  out  of  the  tissue  all  around  it,  as 
if  it  had  been  stung,  and  as  if  the  central  colour  was  really 
an  inflamed  spot,  with  paleness  round.  Then  also  they  carry 
to  its  extreme  the  decoration  by  bulging  or  pouting  the  petal ; 
— often  beautifully  used  by  other  flowers  in  a minor  degree, 
like  the  beating  out  of  bosses  in  hollow  silver,  as  in  the  kal- 
mia,  beaten  out  apparently  in  each  petal  by  the  stamens  in- 
stead of  a hammer  ; or  the  borage,  pouting  inwards  ; but  the 
snapdragons  and  calceolarias  carry  it  to  its  extreme. 

87.  Then  the  spirit  of  these  Draconidse  seems  to  pass  more 
or  less  into  other  flowers,  whose  forms  are  properly  pure 
vases  ; but  it  affects  some  of  them  slightly, — others  not  at  all. 
It  never  strongly  affects  the  heaths  ; never  once  the  roses  ; 
but  it  enters  like  an  evil  spirit  into  the  buttercup,  and  turns 
it  into  a larkspur,  with  a black,  spotted,  grotesque  centre,  and 
a strange,  broken  blue,  gorgeous  and  intense,  yet  impure, 
glittering  on  the  surface  as  if  it  were  strewn  with  broken 
glass,  and  stained  or  darkening  irregularly  into  red.  And 


298 


THE  QUEEN  OF  THE  AIR. 


then  at  last  the  serpent  charm  changes  the  ranunculus  intd 
monkshood  ; and  makes  it  poisonous.  It  enters  into  the  for- 
get-me-not, and  the  star  of  heavenly  turquoise  is  corrupted 
into  the  viper’s  bugloss,  darkened  with  the  same  strange  red 
as  the  larkspur,  and  fretted  into  a fringe  of  thorn  ; it  enters, 
together  with  a strange  insect-spirit,  into  the  asphodels,  and 
(though  with  a greater  interval  between  the  groups,)  they 
change  into  spotted  orchidese  : it  touches  the  poppy,  it  be- 
comes a fumaria  ; the  iris,  and  it  pouts  into  a gladiolus  ; the 
lily,  and  it  chequers  itself  into  a snake’s-head,  and  secretes  in 
the  deep  of  its  bell,  drops,  not  of  venom  indeed,  but  honey- 
dew,  as  if  it  were  a healing  serpent.  For  there  is  an  iEscu- 
lapian  as  well  as  an  evil  serpentry  among  the  Draconidse,  and 
the  fairest  of  them,  the  “erba  della  Madonna”  of  Venice, 
(Linaria  Cymbalaria,)  descends  from  the  ruins  it  delights  in 
to  the  herbage  at  their  feet,  and  touches  it ; and  behold,  in- 
stantly, a vast  group  of  herbs  for  healing, — all  draconid  in 
form, — spotted,  and  crested,  and  from  their  lip-like  corollas 
named  “labiatse;”  full  of  various  balm,  and  warm  strength 
for  healing,  yet  all  of  them  without  splendid  honour  or  per- 
fect beauty,  “ ground  ivies,”  richest  when  crushed  under  thu 
foot  ; the  best  sweetness  and  gentle  brightness  of  the  robes 
of  the  field, — thyme,  and  marjoram,  and  Euphrasy. 

88.  And  observe,  again  and  again,  with  respect  to  all  these 
divisions  and  powers  of  plants  ; it  does  not  matter  in  the  least 
by  what  concurrences  of  circumstance  or  necessity  they  may 
gradually  have  been  developed : the  concurrence  of  circum- 
stance is  itself  the  supreme  and  inexplicable  fact.  We  always 
come  at  last  to  a formative  cause,  which  directs  the  circum- 
stance, and  mode  of  meeting  it.  If  you  ask  an  ordinary 
botanist  the  reason  of  the  form  of  a leaf,  he  will  tell  you  it  ia 
a “ developed  tubercle,”  and  that  its  ultimate  form  “ is  owing 
to  the  directions  of  its  vascular  threads.”  But  what  directs 
its  vascular  threads  ? “ They  are  seeking  for  something  they 

want,”  he  will  probably  answer.  What  made  them  want  that  ? 
What  made  them  seek  for  it  thus  ? Seek  for  it,  in  five  fibres 
or  in  three  ? Seek  for  it,  in  serration,  or  in  sweeping  ourves  ? 
Seek  for  it,  in  servile  tendrils,  cr  impetuous  spray  ? Seek  for 


ATHENA  IN  THE  EARTH. 


299 


it,  in  woollen  wrinkles  rough  with  stings,  or  in  glossy  surfaces, 
green  with  pure  strength,  and  winterless  delight? 

89.  There  is  no  answer.  But  the  sum  of  all  is,  that  over 
the  entire  surface  of  the  earth  and  its  waters,  as  influenced  by 
the  power  of  the  air  under  solar  light,  there  is  developed  a 
series  of  changing  forms,  in  clouds,  plants,  and  animals,  all  of 
which  have  reference  in  their  action,  or  nature,  to  the  human 
intelligence  that  perceives  them  ; and  on  which,  in  their  as- 
pects of  horror  and  beauty,  and  their  qualities  of  good  and 
evil,  there  is  engraved  a series  of  myths,  or  words  of  the  form- 
ing power,  which,  according  to  the  true  passion  and  energy  of 
the  human  race,  they  have  been  enabled  to  read  into  religion. 
And  this  forming  power  has  been  by  all  nations  partly  con- 
fused with  the  breath  or  air  through  which  it  acts,  and  partly 
understood  as  a creative  wdsdom,  proceeding  from  the  Supreme 
Deity ; but  entering  into  and  inspiring  all  intelligences  that 
work  in  harmony  with  Him.  And  whatever  intellectual  re- 
sults may  be  in  modern  days  obtained  by  regarding  this  efflu- 
ence only  as  a motion  of  vibration,  every  formative  human  art 
hitherto,  and  the  best  states  of  human  happiness  and  order, 
have  depended  on  the  apprehension  of  its  mystery  (which  is 
certain),  and  of  its  personality,  which  is  probable. 

90.  Of  its  influence  on  the  formative  arts,  I have  a few 
words  to  say  separately : my  present  business  is  only  to  in- 
terpret, as  we  arc  now  sufficiently  enabled  to  do,  the  external 
symbols  of  the  myth  under  which  it  was  represented  by  the 
Greeks  as  a goddess  of  counsel,  taken  first  into  the  breast  of 
their  supreme  Deity,  then  created  out  of  his  thoughts,  and 
abiding  closely  beside  him  ; always  sharing  and  consummating 
his  power. 

91.  And  in  doing  this  we  have  first  to  note  the  meaning  of 
the  principal  epithet  applied  to  Athena,  “Glaukopis,”  “with 
eyes  full  of  light/’  the  first  syllable  being  connected,  by  its 
root,  with  words  signifying  sight,  not  with  words  signifying 
colour.  As  far  as  I can  trace  the  colour  perception  of  the 
Greeks,  I find  it  all  founded  primarily  on  the  degree  of  con- 
nection between  colour  and  light ; the  most  important  fact  to 
them  in  the  colour  of  red  being  its  connection  with  fire  and 


300 


THE  QUEEN  OF  THE  AIR 


sunshine ; so  that  “purple”  is,  in  its  original  sense,  “fire 
colour,”  and  the  scarlet,  or  orange,  of  dawn,  more  than  an^ 
other  fire-colour.  I was  long  puzzled  by  Homer ‘s  calling  the 
sea  purple  ; and  misled  into  thinking  he  meant  the  colour  of 
cloud  shadows  on  green  sea ; whereas  he  really  means  the 
gleaming  blaze  of  the  waves  under  wide  light.  Aristotle’s 
idea  (partly  true)  is  that  light,  subdued  by  blackness,  becomes 
red ; and  blackness,  heated  or  lighted,  also  becomes  redo 
Thus,  a colour  may  be  called  purple  because  it  is  light  sub- 
dued  (and  so  death  is  called  “purple  ” or  “ shadowy”  death)  ; 
or  else  it  may  be  called  purple  as  being  shade  kind)  ad  with 
fire,  and  thus  said  of  the  lighted  sea ; or  even  of  the  sun  it- 
self, when  it  is  thought  of  as  a red  luminary  opposed  to  the 
whiteness  of  the  moon  : “ purpureos  inter  sGles  et  oandida 
lunse  sidera  ; ” or  of  golden  hair  : “ pro  purpureo  poenam  sol- 
vens  scelerata  capillo  ; ” while  both  ideas  are  modified  by  the 
influence  of  an  earlier  form  of  the  word,  which  has  nothing  to 
do  with  fire  at  all,  but  only  with  mixing  or  staining ; and 
then,  to  make  the  whole  group  of  thoughts  inextricably  com- 
plex, yet  rich  and  subtle  in  proportion  to  their  intricacy,  the 
various  rose  and  crimson  colours  of  the  murex-dye, — the 
crimson  and  purple  of  the  poppy,  and  fruit  of  the  palm, — and 
the  association  of  all  these  with  the  hue  of  blood  ; — partly  di- 
rect, partly  through  a confusion  between  the  word  signifying 
“ slaughter  ” and  “palm-fruit  colour,”  mingle  themselves  in, 
and  renew  the  whole  nature  of  the  old  word  ; so  that,  in  late* 
literature,  it  means  a different  colour,  or  emotion  of  colour,  in 
almost  every  place  where  it  occurs  ; and  casts  forever  around 
the  reflection  of  all  that  has  been  dipped  in  its  dyes. 

92.  So  that  the  word  is  really  a liquid  prism,  and  stream  of 
opal.  And  then,  last  of  all,  to  keep  the  whole  history  of  it  in 
the  fantastic  course  of  a dream,  warped  here  and  there  into 
wild  grotesque,  we  moderns,  who  have  preferred  to  rule  over 
coal-mines  instead  of  the  sea  (and  so  have  turned  the  everlast- 
ing lamp  of  Athena  into  a Davy’s  safety-lamp  in  the  hand  of 
Britannia,  and  Athenian  heavenly  lightning  into  British  sub- 
terranean “damp”),  have  actually  got  our  purple  out  of  coal 
instead  of  the  sea  ! And  thus,  grotesquely,  we  have  had  em 


ATHENA  IN  THE  EARTH. 


301 


forced  on  us  the  doubt  that  held  the  old  word  between  black* 
ness  and  fire,  and  have  completed  the  shadow,  and  the  fear  ot 
it,  by  giving  it  a name  from  battle,  “ Magenta.” 

93.  There  is  precisely  a similar  confusion  between  light 
and  colour  in  the  word  used  for  the  blue  of  the  eyes  of  Athena 
— a noble  confusion,  however,  brought  about  by  the  intensity 
of  the  Greek  sense  that  the  heaven  is  light,  more  than  it  is 
blue.  I was  not  thinking  of  this  when  I wrote,  in  speaking  of 
pictorial  chiaroscuro,  “ The  sky  is  not  blue  colour  merety  ; it 
is  blue  fire,  and  cannot  be  painted  ” (Mod.  P.  iv.  p.  36)  ; but 
it  was  this  that  the  Greeks  chiefly  felt  of  it,  and  so  “ Glau- 
kopis  ” chiefly  means  gray-eyed : gray  standing  for  a pale  or  lu- 
minous blue;  but  it  only  means  “owl-eyed”  in  thought  of  the 
roundness  and  expansion,  not  from  the  colour  ; this  breadth 
and  brightness  being,  again,  in  their  moral  sense  typical  of 
the  breadth,  intensity,  and  singleness  of  the  sight  in  prudence 
(“if  thine  eye  be  single,  thy  whole  body  shall  be  full  of  light”). 
Then  the  actual  power  of  the  bird  to  see  in  twilight  enters 
into  the  type,  and  perhaps  its  general  fineness  of  sense. 
“ Before  the  human  form  was  adopted,  her  (Athena’s)  proper 
symbol  was  the  owl,  a bird  which  seems  to  surpass  all  other 
creatures  in  acuteness  of  organic  perception,  its  eye  being  cal- 
culated to  observe  objects  which  to  all  others  are  enveloped  in 
darkness,  its  ear  to  hear  sounds  distinctly,  and  its  nostrils  to 
discriminate  effluvia  with  such  nicety  that  it  has  been  deemed 
prophetic,  from  discovering  the  putridity  of  death  even  in  the 
first  stages  of  disease.”  * 

I cannot  find  anywhere  an  account  of  the  first  known  occur- 
rence of  the  type  ; but,  in  the  early  ones  on  Attic  coins,  the 
wide  round  eyes  are  clearly  the  principal  things  to  be  mads 
manifest. 

94.  There  is  yet,  however,  another  colour  of  great  impor- 
tance in  the  conception  of  Athena — the  dark  blue  of  her  ssgis. 

. Just  as  the  blue  or  gray  of  her  eyes  was  conceived  as  more 

light  than  colour,  so  her  segis  was  dark  blue,  because  the 

* Payne  Knight  in  liis  “ Inquiry  into  the  Symbolical  Language  of 
.Ancient  Art,”  not  trustworthy,  being  little  move  than  a mass  of  conjee 
tural  memoranda,  but  the  heap  is  suggestive,  if  well  sifted. 


302 


THE  QUEEN  OF  THE  AIR. 


Greeks  thought  of  this  tint  more  as  shade  than  colour,  and, 
while  they  used  various  materials  in  ornamentation,  lapislazuli, 
carbonate  of  copper,  or  perhaps,  smalt,  with  real  enjoyment 
of  the  blue  tint,  it  was  yet  in  their  minds  as  distinctly  repre- 
sentative of  darkness  as  scarlet  was  of  light,  and  therefore 
anything  dark,*  but  especially  the  colour  of  heavy  thunder 
cloud,  was  described  by  the  same  term.  The  physical  power 

* In  the  breastplate  and  shield  of  Atrides  the  serpents  and  bosses  are 
all  of  this  dark  colour,  jet  the  serpents  are  said  to  be  like  rainbows;  but 
through  all  this  splendour  and  opposition  of  hue,  I feel  distinctly  that  the 
literal  “splendour,”  with  its  relative  shade,  are  prevalent  in  the  concep- 
tion ; and  that  there  is  always  a tendency  to  look  through  the  hue  to  its 
cause.  And  in  this  feeling  about  colour  the  Greeks  are  separated  from 
the  eastern  nations,  and  from  the  best  designers  of  Christian  times.  1 
cannot  find  that  they  take  pleasure  in  colour  for  its  own  sake  ; it  mat 
be  in  something  more  than  colour,  or  better  ; but  it  is  not  in  the  hue  it- 
self When  Homer  describes  cloud  breaking  from  a mountain  summit, 
the  crags  became  visible  in  light,  not  in  colour  ; he  feels  only  their 
flashing  out  in  bright  edges  and  trenchant  shadows:  above,  the  “in- 
finite,” “ unspeakable  ” setlier  is  torn  open — but  not  the  blue  of  it.  Ha 
has  scarcely  any  abstract  pleasure  in  blue,  or  green,  or  gold  ; but  only 
in  their  shade  or  flame. 

I have  yet  to  trace  the  causes  of  this  (which  will  be  a long  task,  be- 
longing to  art  questions,  not  to  mythological  ones) ; but  it  is,  I believe, 
much  connected  with  the  brooding  of  the  shadow  of  death  over  the 
Greeks  without  any  clear  hope  of  immortality.  The  restriction  of  the 
colour  on  tlieir  vases  to  dim  red  (or  yellow)  with  black  and  white,  is 
greatly  connected  with  their  sepulchral  use,  and  with  all  the  melancholy 
of  Greek  tragic  thought ; and  in  this  gloom  the  failure  of  colour-percep- 
tion is  partly  noble,  partly  base : noble,  in  its  earnestness,  which  raises 
the  design  of  Greek  vases  as  far  above  the  designing  of  mere  colourist 
nations  like  the  Chinese,  as  men’s  thoughts  are  above  children’s  ; and 
yet  it  is  partly  base  and  earthly  ; and  inherently  defective  in  one  human 
faculty : and  I believe  it  was  one  cause  of  the  perishing  of  their  art  so 
swiitly,  for  indeed  there  is  no  decline  so  sudden,  or  down  to  such  utter 
loss  and  ludicrous  depravity,  as  the  fall  of  Greek  design  on  its  vases 
from  the  fifth  to  the  third  century,  B c.  On  the  other  hand,  the  pure 
coloured  gift,  when  employed  for  pleasure  only,  degrades  in  anothei 
direction  ; so  that  among  the  Indians,  Chinese,  and  Japanese^  all  intel- 
lectual progress  in  art  has  been  for  ages  rendered  impossible  by  the 
prevalence  of  that  faculty:  and  yet  it  is,  as  I have  said  again  and  again, 
the  spiritual  power  of  art ; and  its  true  brightness  is  the  essential  char- 
acteristic of  all  healthy  schools. 


ATHENA  IN  THE  EARTH. 


803 

of  this  darkness  of  the  aegis,  fringed  with  lightning,  is  given 
quite  simply  when  Jupiter  himself  uses  it  to  overshadow  Ida 
and  the  Plain  of  Troy,  and  withdraws  it  at  the  prayer  of  AjaS 
for  light ; and  again  when  he  grants  it  to  be  worn  for  a time 
by  Apollo,  who  is  hidden  by  its  cloud  when  he  strikes  down 
Patroelus : but  its  spiritual  power  is  chiefly  expressed  by  a 
word  signifying  deeper  shadow  ; — the  gloom  ot  Erebus,  or  of 
our  evening,  which,  when  spoken  of  the  aegis,  signifies,  not 
merely  the  indignation  of  Athena,  but  the  entire  hiding  or 
withdrawal  of  her  help,  and  be}Tond  even  this,  her  deadliest 
of  all  hostility, — the  darkness  by  which  she  herself  deceives 
and  beguiles  to  final  ruin  those  to  whom  she  is  wholly  adverse ; 
this  contradiction  of  her  own  glory  being  the  uttermost  judg- 
ment upon  human  falsehood.  Thus  it  is  she  who  provokes 
Pandarus  to  the  treachery  which  purposed  to  fulfil  the  rape 
of  Helen  by  the  murder  of  her  husband  in  time  of  truce ; and 
then  the  Greek  King,  holding  his  wounded  brother’s  hand, 
prophesies  against  Troy  the  darkness  of  the  aegis  which  shall 
be  over  all,  and  for  ever.* 

95.  This,  then,  finally,  was  the  perfect  colour  conception  of 
Athena ; — the  flesh,  snow-white,  (the  hands,  feet,  and  face  of 
marble,  even  when  the  statue  was  hewn  roughly  in  wood) ; the 
eyes  of  keen  pale  blue,  often  in  statues  represented  by  jewels ; 
the  long  robe  to  the  feet,  crocus  coloured ; and  the  aegis  thrown 
over  it  of  thunderous  purple ; the  helmet  golden,  (II.  v.  744), 
and  I suppose  its  crest  also,  as  that  of  Achilles. 

If  you  think  carefully  of  the  meaning  and  character  which 
is  now  enough  illustrated  for  you  in  each  of  these  colours ; 
and  remember  that  the  crocus-colour  and  the  purple  were 
both  of  them  developments,  in  opposite  directions,  of  the 
great  central  idea  of  fire-colour,  or  scarlet,  you  will  see  that 
this  form  of  the  creative  spirit  of  the  earth  is  conceived  as 
robed  in  the  blue,  and  purple,  and  scarlet,  the  white,  and  the 
gold,  which  have  been  recognized  for  the  sacred  chord  of 
colours,  from  the  day  when  the  cloud  descended  on  a Rock 
more  mighty  than  Ida. 

96.  I have  spoken  throughout,  hitherto,  of  the  conception 

* ips/JLvfy  A rvfSa  vraat. — II.  iv.  166. 


304 


THE  QUEEN  OF  THE  AIR . 


of  Athena,  as  it  is  traceable  in  the  Greek  mind  ; not  as  it  wag 
rendered  by  Greek  art.  It  is  matter  of  extreme  difficulty,  re- 
quiring a sympathy  at  once  affectionate  and  cautious,  and  a 
knowledge  reachiug  the  earliest  springs  of  the  religion  of 
many  lands,  to  discern  through  the  imperfection,  and,  alas ! 
more  dimly  yet,  through  the  triumphs  of  formative  art,  what* 
kind  of  thoughts  they  were  that  appointed  for  it  the  tasks 
of  its  childhood,  and  watched  by  the  awakening  of  its 
strength. 

The  religious  passion  is  nearly  always  vividest  when  the  art 
is  weakest ; and  the  technical  skill  only  reaches  its  deliberate 
splendour  when  the  ecstasy  which  gave  it  birth  has  passed 
away  for  ever.  It  is  as  vain  an  attempt  to  reason  out  the 
visionary  power  or  guiding  influence  of  Athena  in  the  Greek 
heart,  from  anything  we  now  read,  or  possess,  of  the  work  of 
Phidias,  as  it  would  be  for  the  disciples  of  some  new  religion 
to  infer  the  spirit  of  Christianity  from  Titian’s  “Assumption.” 
The  effective  vitality  of  the  religious  conception  can  be  traced 
only  through  the  efforts  of  trembling  hands,  and  strange  pleas- 
ures of  untaught  eyes  ; and  the  beauty  of  the  dream  can  no 
more  be  found  in  the  first  symbols  by  which  it  is  expressed, 
than  a child’s  idea  of  fairyland  can  be  gathered  from  its  pencil 
scrawl,  or  a girl’s  love  for  her  broken  doll  explained  by  the 
defaced  features.  On  the  other  hand,  the  Athena  of  Phidias 
was,  in  very  fact.,  not  so  much  the  deity,  as  the  darling  of  the 
Athenian  people.  Her  magnificence  represented  their  pride 
and  fondness,  more  than  their  piety  ; and  the  great  artist,  in 
lavishing  upon  her  dignities  which  might  be  ended  abruptly 
by  the  pillage  they  provoked,  resigned,  apparently  without 
regret,  the  awe  of  her  ancient  memory  ; and  (with  only  the 
careless  remonstrance  of  a workman  too  strong  to  be  proud) 
even  the  perfectness  of  his  own  art.  Rejoicing  in  the  protec- 
tion of  their  goddess,  and  in  their  own  hour  of  glory,  the 
people  of  Athena  robed  her,  at  their  will,  with  the  precious- 
ness of  ivory  and  gems  ; forgot  or  denied  the  darkness  of  the 
breastplate  of  judgment,  and  vainly  bade  its  unappeasable 
serpents  relax  their  coils  in  gold. 

97.  It  will  take  me  many  a day  yet — if  days,  many  or  few, 


ATHENA  IN  THE  EARTH. 


305 


are  given  me — to  disentangle  in  anywise  the  proud  and  prac- 
tised disguises  of  religious  creeds  from  the  instinctive  arts 
which,  grotesquely  and  indecorously,  yet  with  sincerity,  strove 
to  embody  them,  or  to  relate.  But  I think  the  reader,  by 
help  even  of  the  imperfect  indications  already  given  to  him, 
will  be  able  to  follow,  with  a continually  increasing  security, 
the  vestiges  of  the  Myth  of  Athena  ; and  to  reanimate  its  al- 
most evanescent  shade,  by  connecting  it  with  the  now  recog- 
nized facts  of  existent  nature,  which  it,  more  or  less  dimly,  re- 
flected and  foretold.  I gather  these  facts  together  in  brief  sum. 

98.  The  deep  of  air  that  surrounds  the  earth  enters  into  union 
with  the  earth  at  its  surface,  and  with  its  waters  ; so  as  to  be 
the  apparent  cause  of  their  ascending  into  life.  First,  it  warms 
them,  and  shades,  at  once,  staying  the  heat  of  the  sun’s  rays 
in  its  own  body,  but  warding  their  force  with  its  clouds.  It 
warms  and  cools  at  once,  with  traffic  of  balm  and  frost ; so 
that  the  white  wreaths  are  withdrawn  from  the  field  of  the 
Swiss  peasant  by  the  glow  of  Libyan  rock.  It  gives  its  own 
strength  to  the  sea ; forms  and  fills  every  cell  of  its  foam  ; 
sustains  the  precipices,  and  designs  the  valleys  of  its  waves  ; 
gives  the  gleam  to  their  moving  under  the  night,  and  the 
white  fire  to  their  plains  under  sunrise  ; lifts  their  voices  along 
the  rocks,  bears  above  them  the  spray  of  birds,  pencils  through 
them  the  dimpling  of  unfooted  sands.  It  gathers  out  of  them 
a portion  in  the  hollow  of  its  hand  : dyes,  with  that,  the  hills 
into  dark  blue,  and  their  glaciers  with  dying  rose  ; inlays  with 
that,  for  sapphire,  the  dome  in  which  it  has  to  set  the  cloud  ; 
shapes  out  of  that  the  heavenly  flocks  : divides  them,  numbers, 
cherishes,  bears  them  on  its  bosom,  calls  them  to  their 
journeys,  waits  by  their  rest ; feeds  from  them  the  brooks 
that  cease  not,  and  strews  with  them  the  dews  that  cease. 
It  spins  and  weaves  their  fleece  info  wild  tapestry,  rends  it, 
and  renews  ; and  flits  and  flames,  and  whispers,  among  the 
golden  threads,  thrilling  them  with  a plectrum  of  strange  fire 
that  traverses  them  to  and  fro.  and  is  enclosed  in  them  like  life. 

It  enters  into  the  surface  of  the  earth,  subdues  it,  and  falls 
together  with  it  into  fruitful  dust,  from  which  can  be  moulded 
flesh  ; it  joins  itself,  in  dew,  to  the  substance  of  adamant ; 


THE  QUEEN  GF  THE  AIR. 


SO  G 

and  becomes  the  green  leaf  out  of  the  dry  ground  ; it  enter* 
into  the  separated  shapes  of  the  earth  it  has  tempered,  com- 
mands the  ebb  and  flow  of  the  current  of  their  life,  fills  their 
limbs  with  its  own  lightness,  measures  their  existence  by  its 
indwelling  pulse,  moulds  upon  their  lips  the  words  by  v/hich 
one  soul  can  be  known  to  another ; is  to  them  the  hearing  of 
the  ear,  and  the  beating  of  the  heart  ; and,  passing  away, 
leaves  them  to  the  peace  that  hears  and  moves  no  more. 

99.  This  was  the  Athena  of  the  greatest  people  of  the  days 
of  old.  And  opposite  to  the  temple  of  this  Spirit  of  the  breath, 
and  life-blood,  of  man  and  of  beast,  stood,  on  the  Mount  of 
Justice,  and  near  the  chasm  which  was  hauuted  by  the  god- 
dess-Avengers,  an  altar  to  a God  unknown  ; — proclaimed  at  last 
to  them,  as  one  who,  indeed,  gave  to  all  men,  life,  and  breath, 
and  all  things  ; and  rain  from  heaven,  filling  their  hearts  with 
food  and  gladness  a God  who  had  made  of  one  blood  all 
nations  of  men  who  dwell  on  the  face  of  all  the  earth,  and  had 
determined  the  times  of  their  fate,  and  the  bounds  of  their 
habitation. 

100.  We  ourselves,  fretted  here  in  our  narrow  days,  know 
less,  perhaps,  in  very  deed,  than  they,  what  manner  of  spirit 
we  are  of,  or  what  manner  of  spirit  we  ignorantly  worship. 
Have  we,  indeed,  desired  the  Desire  of  all  nations  ? and  will 
the  Master  whom  we  meant  to  seek,  and  the  Messenger  in 
whom  we  thought  we  delighted,  confirm,  when  He  comes  to 
His  temple, — or  not  find  in  its  midst, — the  tables  heavy  with 
gold  for  bread,  and  the  seats  that  are  bought  with  the  price  of 
the  dove  ? Or  is  our  own  land  also  to  be  left  by  its  angered 
Spirit ; — left  among  those,  where  sunshine  vainly  sweet,  and 
passionate  folly  of  storm,  waste  themselves  in  the  silent  places 
of  knowledge  that  has  passed  away,  and  of  tongues  that  have 
ceased  ? 

This  only  we  majT  discern  assuredly : this,  every  true  light 
of  science,  every  mercifully-granted  power,  every  wisely-re- 
stricted thought,  teach  us  more  clearly  day  by  day,  that  in  the 
heavens  above,  and  the  earth  beneath,  there  is  one  continual 
and  omnipotent  presence  of  help,  and  of  peace,  for  all  men 
Who  know  that  they  Live,  and  remember  that  they  Die. 


in. 

ATHENA  EEGrANE . * 

(Athena  in  the  Heart.) 

Various  Notes  relating  to  the  Conception  of  Athena  as  the  Directress  of 
the  Imagination  and  Will. 

101.  I have  now  only  a few  words  to  say,  bearing  on  what 
seems  to  me  present  need,  respecting  the  third  function  of 
Athena,  conceived  as  the  directress  of  human  passion,  resolu* 
tion,  and  labour. 

Few  words,  for  I am  not  yet  prepared  to  give  accurate  dis- 
tinction between  the  intellectual  rule  of  Athena  and  that  of 
the  Muses  : but,  broadly,  the  Muses,  with  their  king,  preside 
over  meditative,  historical,  and  poetic  arts,  whose  end  is  the 
discovery  of  light  or  truth,  and  the  creation  of  beauty : but 
Athena  rules  over  moral  passion,  and  practically  useful  art.  She 
does  not  make  men  learned,  but  prudent  and  subtle  : she  does 
not  teach  them  to  make  their  work  beautiful,  but  to  make  it 
right. 

In  different  places  of  my  writings,  and  through  many  years 
of  endeavour  to  define  the  laws  of  art,  I have  insisted  on  this 
rightness  in  work,  and  on  its  connection  with  virtue  of  char- 
acter, in  so  many  partial  ways,  that  the  impression  left  on  the 
reader’s  mind — if,  indeed,  it  was  ever  impressed  at  all — has 
been  confused  and  uncertain.  In  beginning  the  series  of  my 
corrected  works,  I wish  this  principle  (in  my  own  mind  the 
foundation  of  every  other)  to  be  made  plain,  if  nothing  else 
is : and  will  try,  therefore,  to  make  it  so,  as  far  as,  by  any 
effort,  I can  put  it  into  unmistakable  words.  And,  first,  here 
is  a very  simple  statement  of  it,  given  lately  in  a lecture  on 
the  Architecture  of  the  Valley  of  the  Somme,  which  will  be 

*“  Athena  the  worker,  or  having  rule  over  work.”  The  name  was 
trst  given  to  her  by  the  Athenians. 


308 


THE  QUEEN  OF  THE  AIR 


better  read  in  this  place  than  in  its  incidental  connection  with 
my  account  of  the  porches  of  Abbeville. 

102.  I had  used,  in  a preceding  part  of  the  lecture,  the 
expression,  “ by  what  faults  ” this  Gothic  architecture  fell. 
We  continually  speak  thus  of  works  of  art.  We  talk  of  their 
faults  and  merits,  as  of  virtues  and  vices.  What  do  we  mean 
by  talking  of  the  faults  of  a picture,  or  the  merits  of  a piece 
of  stone  ? 

The  faults  of  a work  of  art  are  the  faults  of  its  workmen, 
and  its  virtues  his  virtues. 

Great  art  is  the  expression  of  the  mind  of  a great  man,  and 
mean  art,  that  of  the  want  of  mind  of  a w7eak  man.  A foolish 
person  builds  foolishly,  and  a wise  one,  sensibly  ; a virtuous 
one,  beautifully  ; and  a vicious  one,  basely.  If  stone  work  is 
■well  put  together,  it  means  that  a thoughtful  man  planned  it, 
and  a careful  man  cut  it,  and  an  honest  man  cemented  it.  If 
it  has  too  much  ornament,  it  means  that  its  carver  was  too 
greedy  of  pleasure  ; if  too  little,  that  he  was  rude,  or  insensi- 
tive, or  stupid,  and  the  like.  So  that  ■when  once  you  have 
learned  how  to  spell  these  most  precious  of  all  legends, — pict- 
ures and  buildings, — you  may  read  the  characters  of  men, 
and  of  nations,  in  their  art,  as  in  a mirror  ; — nay,  as  in  a 
microscope,  and  magnified  a hundredfold ; for  the  character 
becomes  passionate  in  the  art,  and  intensifies  itself  in  all  its 
noblest  or  meanest  delights.  Nay,  not  only  as  in  a micro- 
scope, but  as  under  a scalpel,  and  in  dissection  ; for  a man 
may  hide  himself  from  you,  or  misrepresent  himself  to  you, 
every  other  way ; but  he  cannot  in  his  work  : there,  be  sure, 
you  have  him  to  the  inmost.  All  that  he  likes,  all  that  he 
sees, — all  that  he  can  do, — his  imagination,  his  affections,  his 
perseverance,  his  impatience,  his  clumsiness,  cleverness,  every- 
thing is  there.  If  the  ■work  is  a cobweb,  you  know  it  was 
made  by  a spider  ; if  a honeycomb,  by  a bee  ; a worm-cast  is 
thrown  up  by  a worm,  and  a nest  wreathed  by  a bird  ; and  a 
house  built  by  a man,  worthily,  if  he  is  worthy,  and  ignobly, 
if  he  is  ignoble. 

And  always,  from  the  least  to  the  greatest,  as  the  made 
thing  is  good  or  bad,  so  is  the  maker  of  it. 


ATHENA  IN  THE  HEART. 


309 


103.  You  all  use  this  faculty  of  judgment  more  or  less, 
whether  you  theoretically  admit  the  principle  or  not.  Take 
that  floral  gable  ; * you  don’t,  suppose  the  man  who  built 
Stonehenge  could  have  built  that,  or  that  the  man  who  built 
that,  would  have  built  Stonehenge  ? Do  you  think  an  old 
Roman  would  have  liked  such  a piece  of  filigree  work  ? or 
that  Michael  Angelo  would  have  spent  his  time  in  twisting 
these  stems  of  roses  in  and  out  ? Or,  of  modern  handicrafts- 
men, do  you  think  a burglar,  or  a brute,  or  a pickpocket 
could  have  carved  it  ? Could  Bill  Sykes  have  done  it  ? or  the 
Dodger,  dexterous  with  finger  and  tool  ? You  will  find  in  the 
end,  that  no  man  could  have  done  it  hut  exactly  the  man  who  did 
it  ; and  by  looking  close  at  it,  you  may,  if  you  know  your 
letters,  read  precisely  the  manner  of  man  he  was. 

104.  Now  I must  insist  on  this  matter,  for  a grave  reason. 
Of  all  facts  concerning  art,  this  is  the  one  most  necessary  to 
be  known,  that,  while  manufacture  is  the  work  of  hands  only, 
art  is  the  work  of  the  whole  spirit  of  man  ; and  as  that  spirit 
is,  so  is  the  deed  of  it : and  by  whatever  power  of  vice  or  vir- 
tue any  art  is  produced,  the  same  vice  or  virtue  it  reproduces 
and  teaches.  That  which  is  born  of  evil  begets  evil ; and  that 
which  is  born  of  valour  and  honour,  teaches  valour  and  hon- 
our. All  art  is  either  infection  or  education.  It  must  be  one 
or  other  of  these. 

105.  This,  I repeat,  of  all  truths  respecting  art,  is  the  one 
of  which  understanding  is  the  most  precious,  and  denial  the 
most  deadly.  And  I assert  it  the  more,  because  it  has  of  late 
been  repeatedly,  expressly,  and  with  contumely,  denied  ; and 
that  by  high  authority  : and  I hold  it  one  of  the  most  sorrow- 
ful facts  connected  with  the  decline  of  the  arts  among  us,  that 
English  gentlemen,  of  high  standing  as  scholars  and  artists, 
should  have  been  blinded  into  the  acceptance,  and  betrayed 
into  the  assertion  of  a fallacy  which  only  authority  such  as 
theirs  could  have  rendered  for  an  instant  credible.  For  the 
contrary  of  it  is  written  in  the  history  of  all  great  nations ; it 

* The  elaborate  pediment  above  the  central  porch  at  the  west  end  of 
.Rouen  Cathedral,  pierced  into  a transparent  web  of  tracery,  and  en 
riehed  with  a border  of  “ twisted  eglantine.” 

6 


310 


THE  QUEEN  OF  THE  AIR. 


is  the  one  sentence  always  inscribed  on  the  steps  of  theit 
thrones ; the  one  concordant  voice  in  which  they  speak  to  us 
out  of  their  dust. 

All  such  nations  first  manifest  themselves  as  a pure  and 
beautiful  animal  race,  with  intense  energy  and  imagination. 
They  live  lives  of  hardship  by  choice,  and  by  grand  instinct 
of  manly  discipline : they  become  fierce  and  irresistible  sol- 
diers ; the  nation  is  always  its  own  army,  and  their  king,  or 
chief  head  of  government,  is  always  their  first  soldier.  Pha- 
raoh, or  David,  or  Leonidas,  or  Valerius,  or  Barbarossa,  or 
Coeur  de  Lion,  or  St.  Louis,  or  Dandolo,  or  Frederick  the 
Great : — Egyptian,  Jew,  Greek,  Koman,  German,  English, 
French,  Venetian, — that  is  inviolable  law  for  them  all ; their 
king  must  be  their  first  soldier,  or  they  cannot  be  in  progres- 
sive power.  Then,  after  their  great  military  period,  comes  the 
domestic  period ; in  which,  without  betraying  the  discipline 
of  war,  they  add  to  their  great  soldiership  the  delights  and 
possessions  of  a delicate  and  tender  home-life  : and  then,  for 
all  nations,  is  the  time  of  their  perfect  art,  which  is  the  fruit, 
the  evidence,  the  reward  of  their  national  idea  of  character, 
developed  by  the  finished  care  of  the  occupations  of  peace. 
That  is  the  history  of  all  true  art  that  ever  was,  or  can  be  : 
palpably  the  history  of  it,-— unmistakably, — written  on  the 
forehead  of  it  in  letters  of  light,— in  tongues  of  fire,  by  which 
the  seal  of  virtue  is  branded  as  deep  as  ever  iron  burnt  into  a 
convict’s  flesh  the  seal  of  crime.  But  always,  hitherto,  after 
the  great  period,  has  followed  the  day  of  luxury,  and  pursuit 
of  the  arts  for  pleasure  only.  And  ail  has  so  ended. 

106  Thus  far  of  Abbeville  building.  Now  I have  here  as- 
serted two  things, — first,  the  foundation  of  art  in  moral  char- 
acter ; next,  the  foundation  of  moral  character  in  war.  I 
must  make  both  these  assertions  clearer,  and  prove  them. 

First,  of  the  foundation  of  art  in  moral  character.  Of 
course  art-gift  and  amiability  of  disposition  are  two  different 
things  ; a good  man  is  not  necessarily  a painter,  nor  does  an 
eye  for  colour  necessarily  imply  an  honest  mind.  But  great 
art  implies  the  union  of  both  powers  : it  is  the  expression,  by 
an  art-gift,  of  a pure  soul.  If  the  gift  is  not  there,  we  can 


ATHENA  IN  THE  HEART 


311 


have  no  art  at  all ; and  if  the  soul — and  a right  soul  too — is 
not  there,  the  art  is  bad,  however  dexterous. 

107.  But  also,  remember,  that  the  art-gift  itself  is  only  the 
result  of  the  moral  character  of  generations.  A bad  woman 
may  have  a sweet  voice  ; but  that  sweetness  of  voice  comes  of 
the  past  morality  of  her  race.  That  she  can  sing  with  it  at 
all,  she  owes  to  the  determination  of  laws  of  music  by  the 
morality  of  the  past.  Every  act,  every  impulse,  of  virtue  and 
vice,  affects  in  any  creature,  face,  voice,  nervous  power,  and 
vigour  and  harmony  of  invention,  at  once.  Perseverance  in 
rightness  of  human  conduct,  renders,  after  a certain  number 
of  generations,  human  art  possible  ; every  sin  clouds  it,  be  it 
ever  so  little  a one  ; and  persistent  vicious  living  and  follow- 
ing of  pleasure  render,  after  a certain  number  of  generations, 
all  art  impossible.  Men  are  deceived  by  the  long-suffering 
of  the  laws  of  nature  ; and  mistake,  in  a nation,  the  reward 
of  the  virtue  of  its  sires  for  the  issue  of  its  own  sins.  The 
time  of  their  visitation  will  come,  and  that  inevitably ; for,  it 
is  always  true,  that  if  the  fathers  have  eaten  sour  grapes,  the 
children’s  teeth  are  set  on  edge.  And  for  the  individual,  as 
soon  as  you  have  learned  to  read,  you  may,  as  I said,  know 
him  to  the  heart’s  core,  through  his  art.  Let  his  art-gift  be 
never  so  great,  and  cultivated  to  the  height  by  the  schools  of 
a great  race  of  men  ; and  it  is  still  but  a tapestry  thrown  over 
his  own  being  and  inner  soul ; and  the  bearing  of  it  will  show, 
infallibly,  whether  it  hangs  on  a man,  or  on  a skeleton.  If 
you  are  dim-eyed,  you  may  not  see  the  difference  in  the  fall 
of  the  folds  at  first,  but  learn  how  to  look,  and  the  folds 
themselves  will  become  transparent,  and  you  shall  see  through 
them  the  death’s  shape,  or  the  divine  one,  making  the  tissue 
above  it  as  a cloud  of  light,  or  as  a winding-sheet. 

108.  Then  farther,  observe,  I have  said  (and  you  will  find 
it  true,  and  that  to  the  uttermost)  that,  as  all  lovely  art  is 
rooted  in  virtue,  so  it  bears  fruit  of  virtue,  and  is  didactic  in 
its  own  nature.  It  is  often  didactic  also  in  actually  expressed 
thought,  as  Giotto’s,  Michael  Angelo’s,  Diirer’s,  and  hundreds 
more  ; but  that  is  not  its  special  function, — it  is  didactic 
chiefly  by  being  beautiful ; but  beautiful  with  haunting 


312 


THE  QUEEN  OF  THE  AIR. 


thought,  no  less  than  with  form,  and  full  of  myths  that  can 
be  read  only  with  the  heart. 

For  instance,  at  this  moment  there  is  open  beside  me  as  I 
write,  a page  of  Persian  manuscript,  wrought  with  wreathed 
azure  and  gold,  and  soft  green,  and  violet,  and  ruby  and  scar 
let,  into  one  field  of  pure  resplendence.  It  is  wrought  to  de- 
light the  eyes  only  ; and  does  delight  them  ; and  the  man 
who  did  it  assuredly  had  eyes  in  his  head  ; but  not  much 
more.  It  is  not  didactic  art,  but  its  author  was  happy  : and 
it  will  do  the  good,  and  the  harm,  that  mere  pleasure  can  do. 
But,  opposite  me,  is  an  early  Turner  drawing  of  the  lake  of 
Geneva,  taken  about  two  miles  from  Geneva,  on  the  Lausanne 
road,  with  Mont  Blanc  in  the  distance.  The  old  city  is  seen 
lying  beyond  the  waveless  waters,  veiled  with  a sweet  misty 
veil  of  Athena’s  weaving  : a faint  light  of  morning,  peaceful 
exceedingly,  and  almost  colourless,  shed  from  behind  the  Voi- 
rons,  increases  into  soft  amber  along  the  slope  of  the  Saleve, 
and  is  just  seen,  and  no  more,  on  the  fair  warm  fields  of  its 
summit,  between  the  folds  of  a white  cloud  that  rests  upon  the 
grass,  but  rises,  high  and  tower-like,  into  the  zenith  of  dawn 
above. 

109.  There  is  not  as  much  colour  in  that  low  amber  light 
upon  the  hill-side  as  there  is  in  the  palest  dead  leaf.  The 
lake  is  not  blue,  but  gray  in  mist,  passing  into  deep  shadow 
beneath  the  Yoirons’  pines  ; a few  dark  clusters  of  leaves,  a 
single  white  flower — scarcely  seen — are  all  the  gladness  given 
to  the  rocks  of  the  shore.  One  of  the  ruby  spots  of  the  east- 
ern manuscript  would  give  colour  enough  for  all  the  red  that 
is  in  Turner’s  entire  drawing.  For  the  mere  pleasure  of  the 
eye,  there  is  not  so  much  in  all  those  lines  of  his,  throughout 
the  entire  landscape,  as  in  half  an  inch  square  of  the  Persian’s 
page.  What  made  him  take  pleasure  in  the  low  colour  that 
is  only  like  the  brown  of  a dead  leaf  ? in  the  cold  gray  of  dawn 
— in  the  one  white  flower  among  the  rocks — in  these — and  no 
more  than  these? 

110.  He  took  pleasure  in  them  because  he  had  been  bred 
among  English  fields  and  hills  ; because  the  gentleness  of  a 
great  race  was  in  his  heart,  and  its  powers  of  thought  in  his 


ATHENA  IN  THE  HEART. 


313 


brain  ; because  he  knew  the  stories  of  the  Alps,  and  of  the 
cities  at  their  feet ; because  he  had  read  the  Homeric  legends 
of  the  clouds,  and  beheld  the  gods  of  dawn,  and  the  givers  of 
dew  to  the  fields  ; because  he  knew  the  faces  of  the  crags,  and 
the  imagery  of  the  passionate  mountains,  as  a man  knows  the 
face  of  his  friend  ; because  he  had  in  him  the  wonder  and 
sorrow  concerning  life  and  death,  wThich  are  the  inheritance 
of  the  G-othic  soul  from  the  days  of  its  first  sea  kings  ; and 
also  the  compassion  and  the  joy  that  are  woven  into  the  inner- 
most fabric  of  every  great  imaginative  spirit,  born  now  in 
countries  that  have  lived  by  the  Christian  faith  with  any  cour- 
age or  truth.  And  the  picture  contains  also,  for  us,  just  this 
which  its  maker  had  in  him  to  give  ; and  can  convey  it  to  us, 
just  so  far  as  we  are  of  the  temper  in  which  it  must  be  re- 
ceived. It  is  didactic  if  we  are  worthy  to  be  taught,  no  other- 
wise. The  pure  heart,  it  will  make  more  pure  ; the  thought- 
ful, more  thoughtful.  It  has  in  it  no  words  for  the  reckless 
or  the  base. 

111.  As  I myself  look  at  it,  there  is  no  fault  nor  folly  of  my 
life, — and  both  have  been  many  and  great, — that  does  not  rise 
up  against  me,  and  take  away  my  joy,  and  shorten  my  power 
of  possession,  of  sight,  of  understanding.  And  every  past 
effort  of  my  life,  every  gleam  of  rightness  or  good  in  it,  is 
with  me  now,  to  help  me  in  my  grasp  of  this  art,  and  its  vis- 
ion. So  far  as  I can  rejoice  in,  or  interpret  either,  my  power 
is  owing  to  what  of  right  there  is  in  me.  I dare  to  say  it, 
that,  because  through  all  my  life  I have  desired  good,  and  not 
evil ; because  I have  been  kind  to  many  ; have  wished  to  be 
kind  to  all;  have  wilfully  injured  none  ; and  because  I have 
loved  much,  and  not  selfishly  ; — therefore,  the  morning  light 
is  yet  visible  to  me  on  those  hills,  and  you,  who  read,  may 
trust  my  thought  and  word  in  such  work  as  I have  to  do  for 
you  ; and  you  will  be  glad  afterwards  that  you  have  trusted 
them. 

112.  Yet  remember, — I repeat  it  again  and  yet  again, — that 
I may  for  once,  if  possible,  make  this  thing  assuredly  clear  : — 
the  inherited  art-gift  must  be  there,  as  well  as  the  life  in  some 
poor  measure,  or  rescued  fragment,  right.  This  art-gift  of 


314 


TEE  QUEEN  OF  THE  AIR. 


mine  could  not  have  been  won  by  any  work  or  by  any  con* 
duct : it  belongs  to  me  by  birthright,  and  came  by  Athena’s 
will,  from  the  air  of  English  country  villages,  and  Scottish 
hills.  I will  risk  whatever  charge  of  folly  may  come  on  me, 
for  printing  one  of  my  many  childish  rhymes,  written  on  a 
frosty  day  in  Glen  Farg,  just  north  of  Loch  Leven.  It  bears 
date  1st  January,  1828.  I was  bom  on  the  8th  of  February, 
1819  ; and  all  that  I ever  could  be,  and  all  that  I cannot  be, 
the  weak  little  rhyme  already  shows. 

“ Papa,  how  pretty  those  icicles  are, 

That  are  seen  so  near, — that  are  seen  so  far  ; 

— Those  dropping  waters  that  come  from  the  rocks 
And  many  a hole,  like  the  haunt  of  a fox. 

That  silvery  stream  that  runs  babbling  along, 

Making  a murmuring,  dancing  song. 

Those  trees  that  stand  waving  upon  the  rock’s  side, 

And  men,  that,  like  spectres,  among  them  glide. 

And  waterfalls  that  are  heard  from  far, 

And  come  in  sight  when  very  near. 

And  the  water-wheel  that  turns  slowly  round, 

Grinding  the  corn  that — requires  to  be  ground, — ■ 

(Political  Economy  of  the  future  !) 

— - — And  mountains  at  a distance  seen, 

And  rivers  winding  through  the  plain. 

And  quarries  with  their  craggy  stones, 

And  the  wind  among  them  moans.” 

So  foretelling  Stones  of  Venice,  and  this  essay  on  Athena. 

Enough  now  concerning  myself.  • 

113.  Of  Turner’s  life,  and  of  its  good  and  evil,  both  great, 
but  the  good  immeasurably  the  greater,  his  work  is  in  all 
things  a perfect  and  transparent  evidence.  His  biography  i3 
simply, — “ He  did  this,  nor  will  ever  another  do  its  like  again,” 
Yet  read  what  I have  said  of  him,  as  compared  with  the  great 
Italians,  in  the  passages  taken  from  the  “ Cestus  of  Aglaia,* 
farther  on,  § 158,  p.  119. 

114.  This  then  is  the  nature  of  the  connection  of  morals 
with  art.  Now,  secondly,  I have  asserted  the  foundation  ol 


ATHENA  IN  THE  HEART. 


315 


both  these,  at  least,  hitherto,  in  war.  The  reason  of  this  too 
manifest  fact  is,  that,  until  now,  it  has  been  impossible  for 
any  nation,  except  a warrior  one,  to  fix  its  mind  wholly  on  its 
men,  instead  of  on  their  possessions.  Every  great  soldier  na- 
tion thinks,  necessarily,  first  of  multiplying  its  bodies  and 
souls  of  men,  in  good  temper  and  strict  discipline.  As  long 
as  this  is  its  political  aim,  it  does  not  matter  what  it  tem- 
porarily suffers,  or  loses,  either  in  numbers  or  in  -wealth ; its 
morality  and  its  arts,  (if  it  have  national  art-gift,)  advance 
together ; but  so  soon  as  it  ceases  to  be  a warrior  nation,  it 
thinks  of  its  possessions  instead  of  its  men  ; and  then  the 
moral  and  poetic  powers  vanish  together. 

115.  It  is  thus,  however,  absolutely  necessary  to  the  virtue 
of  war  that  it  should  be  waged  by  personal  strength,  not  by 
money  or  machinery.  A nation  that  fights  with  a mercenary 
force,  or  with  torpedoes  instead  of  its  own  arms,  is  dying.  Not 
but  that  there  is  more  true  courage  in  modern  than  even  in  an 
cient  war ; but  this  is,  first,  because  all  the  remaining  life  of 
European  nations  is  with  a morbid  intensity  thrown  into  their 
soldiers  ; and,  secondly,  because  their  present  heroism  is  the 
culmination  of  centuries  of  inbred  and  traditional  valour, 
which  Athena  taught  them  by  forcing  them  to  govern  the  foam 
of  the  sea-wave  and  of  the  horse, — not  the  steam  of  kettles. 

116.  And  farther,  note  this,  which  is  vital  to  us  in  the  pres- 
ent crisis  : If  war  is  to  be  made  by  money  and  machinery, 
the  nation  which  is  the  largest  and  most  covetous  multitude 
will  win.  You  may  be  as  scientific  as  you  choose  ; the  mob 
that  can  pay  more  for  sulphuric  acid  and  gunpowder  will  at 
last  poison  its  bullets,  throw  acid  in  your  faces,  and  make  an 
end  of  you  ; — of  itself,  also,  in  good  time,  but  of  you  first. 
And  to  the  English  people  the  choice  of  its  fate  is  very  near 
now.  It  may  spasmodically  defend  its  property  with  iron 
walls  a fathom  thick,  a few  years  longer — a very  few.  No 
walls  will  defend  either  it,  or  its  havings,  against  the  multi- 
tude that  is  breeding  and  spreading,  faster  than  the  clouds, 
over  the  habitable  earth.  We  shall  be  allowed  to  live  by  small 
pedlar’s  business,  and  ironmongery — since  we  have  chosen 
those  for  our  line  of  life— as  long  as  we  are  found  useful  black 


316 


THE  QUEEN  OF  THE  AIR . 


servants  to  tlie  Americans  ; and  are  content  to  dig  coals  and 
sit  in  the  cinders  ; and  have  still  coals  to  dig, — they  once  ex- 
hausted, or  got  cheaper  elsewhere,  we  shall  be  abolished.  But 
if  we  think  more  wisely,  while  there  is  yet  time,  and  set  our 
minds  again  on  multiplying  Englishmen,  and  not  on  cheapen- 
ing English  wares  ; if  we  resolve  to  submit  to  wholesome  laws 
of  labour  and  economy,  and,  setting  our  political  squabbles 
aside,  try  how  many  strong  creatures,  friendly  and  faithful  to 
each  other,  we  can  crowd  into  every  spot  of  English  dominion, 
neither  poison  nor  iron  will  prevail  against  us  ; nor  traffic — 
nor  hatred  : the  noble  nation  will  yet,  by  the  grace  of  Heaven, 
rule  over  the  ignoble,  and  force  of  heart  hold  its  own  against 
fire-balls. 

117.  But  there  is  yet  a farther  reason  for  the  dependence 
of  the  arts  on  war.  The  vice  and  injustice  of  the  world  are 
constantly  springing  anew,  and  are  only  to  be  subdued  by 
battle  ; the  keepers  of  order  and  law  must  always  be  soldiers. 
And  now,  going  back  to  the  myth  of  Athena,  w^e  see  that 
though  she  is  first  a warrior  maid,  she  detests  war  for  its  own 
sake  ; she  arms  Achilles  and  Ulysses  in  just  quarrels,  but  she 
disarms  Ares.  She  contends,  herself,  continually  against  dis- 
order and  convulsion,  in  the  Earth  giants;  she  stands  by  Her- 
cules’ side  in  victory  over  all  monstrous  evil : in  justice  only 
she  judges  and  makes  war.  But  in  this  war  of  hers  she  is 
wholly  implacable.  She  has  little  notion  of  converting  crimi- 
nals. There  is  no  faculty  of  mercy  in  her  when  she  has  been 
resisted.  Her  word  is  only,  “I  will  mock  you  when  your  fear 
cometh.”  Note  the  words  that  follow  : “ when  your  fear  com- 
eth  as  desolation,  and  your  destruction  as  a whirlwind  for 
her  wrath  is  of  irresistible  tempest : once  roused,  it  is  blind 
and  deaf, — rabies — madness  of  anger — darkness  of  the  Dies 
Iree. 

And  that  is,  indeed,  the  sorrowf idlest  fact  we  have  to  know 
about  our  own  several  lives.  "Wisdom  never  forgives.  What- 
ever resistance  we  have  offered  to  her  law,  she  avenges  for 
ever  ; — the  lost  hour  can  never  be  redeemed,  and  the  accom- 
plished wrong  never  atoned  for.  The  best  that  can  be  done 
afterwards,  but  for  that,  had  been  better ; — the  falsest  of  all 


ATHENA  IN  THE  HEART. 


31 7 


the  cries  of  peace,  where  there  is  no  peace,  is  that  of  the  pardon 
of  sin,  as  the  mob  expect  it.  Wisdom  can  “ put  away  ” sin, 
but  she  cannot  pardon  it  ; and  she  is  apt,  in  her  haste,  to  put 
away  the  sinner  as  well,  when  the  black  aegis  is  on  her  breast. 

118.  And  this  is  also  a fact  we  have  to  know  about  our  na- 
tional life,  that  it  is  ended  as  soon  as  it  has  lost  the  power  of 
noble  Anger.  When  it  paints  over,  and  apologizes  for  its 
pitiful  criminalities  ; and  endures  its  false  weights,  and  its 
adulterated  food  ; — dares  not  to  decide  practically  between 
good  and  evil,  and  can  neither  honour  the  one,  nor  smite  the 
other,  but  sneers  at  the  good,  as  if  it  were  hidden  evil,  and 
consoles  the  evil  with  pious  sympathy,  and  conserves  it  in  the 
sugar  of  its  leaden  heart, — the  end  is  come. 

119.  The  first  sign,  then,  of  Athena’s  presence  with  any 
people,  is  that  they  become  warriors,  and  that  the  chief 
thought  of  every  man  of  them  is  to  stand  rightly  in  his  rank, 
and  not  fail  from  his  brother’s  side  in  battle.  Wealth,  and 
pleasure,  and  even  love,  are  all,  under  Athena's  orders,  sacri- 
ficed to  this  duty  of  standing  fast  in  the  rank  of  war. 

But  farther  : Athena  presides  over  industry,  as  well  as  bat- 
tle ; typically,  over  women’s  industry ; that  brings  comfort 
■with  pleasantness.  Her  word  to  us  all  is  : — “ Be  well  exer- 
cised, and  rightly  clothed.  Clothed,  and  in  your  right  minds  ; 
not  insane  and  in  rags,  nor  in  soiled  fine  clothes  clutched 
from  each  other’s  shoulders.  Fight  and  weave.  Then  I my- 
self will  answer  for  the  course  of  the  lance,  and  the  colours 
of  the  loom.” 

And  now  I will  ask  the  reader  to  look  with  some  care 
through  these  following  passages  respecting  modern  multi- 
tudes and  their  occupations,  written  long  ago,  but  left  in 
fragmentary  form,  in  which  they  must  now  stay,  and  be  of 
what  use  they  can. 

120.  It  is  not  political  economy  to  put  a number  of  strong 
men  down  on  an  acre  of  ground,  with  no  lodging,  and  noth- 
ing to  eat.  Nor  is  it  political  economy  to  build  a city  on 
good  ground,  and  fill  it  with  store  of  corn  and  treasure,  and 
put  a score  of  lepers  to  live  in  it.  Political  economy  creates 
together  the  means  of  life,  and  the  living  persons  who  are  to 


318 


THE  QUEEN  OF  THE  AIR. 


use  them  ; and  of  both,  the  best  and  the  most  that  it  can,  but 
imperatively  the  best,  not  the  most.  A few  good  and  healthy 
men,  rather  than  a multitude  of  diseased  rogues  ; and  a little 
real  milk  and  wine  rather  than  much  chalk  and  petroleum  ; 
but  the  gist  of  the  whole  business  is  that  the  men  and  their 
property  must  both  be  produced  together — not  one  to  the  loss 
of  the  other.  Property  must  not  be  created  in  lands  desolate 
by  exile  of  their  people,  nor  multiplied  and  depraved  hu- 
manity, in  lands  barren  of  bread. 

121.  Nevertheless,  though  the  men  and  their  possessions 
are  to  be  increased  at  the  same  time,  the  first  object  of 
thought  is  always  to  be  the  multiplication  of  a worthy  people. 
The  strength  of  the  nation  is  in  its  multitude,  not  in  its 
territory  ; but  only  in  its  sound  multitude.  It  is  one  thing, 
both  in  a man  and  a nation,  to  gain  flesh,  and  another  to  be 
swollen  with  putrid  humours.  Not  that  multitude  ever 
ought  to  be  inconsistent  with  virtue.  Two  men  should  be 
wiser  than  one,  and  two  thousand  than  two  ; nor  do  I know 
another  so  gross  fallacy  in  the  records  of  human  stupidity  as 
that  excuse  for  neglect  of  crime  by  greatness  of  cities.  As  if 
the  first  purpose  of  congregation  were  not  to  devise  laws  and 
repress  crimes  ! as  if  bees  and  w’asps  could  live  honestly  in 
flocks, — men,  only  in  separate  dens  ! — as  if  it  was  easy  to  help 
one  another  on  the  opposite  sides  of  a mountain,  and  impos- 
sible on  the  opposite  sides  of  a street ! But  when  the  men 
are  true  and  good,  and  stand  shoulder  to  shoulder,  the 
strength  of  any  nation  is  in  its  quantity  of  life,  not  in  its  land 
nor  gold.  The  more  good  men  a state  has,  in  proportion  to 
its  territory,  the  stronger  the  state.  And  as  it  has  been  the 
madness  of  economists  to  seek  for  gold  instead  of  life,  so  it 
has  been  the  madness  of  kings  to  seek  for  land  instead  of 
life.  They  want  the  town  on  the  other  side  of  the  river,  and 
seek  it  at  the  spear  point : it  never  enters  their  stupid  heads 
that  to  double  the  honest  souls  in  the  town  on  this  side  of  the 
river,  would  make  them  stronger  kings  ; and  that  this  doub- 
ling might  be  done  by  the  ploughshare  instead  of  the  spear, 
and  through  happiness  instead  of  misery. 

Therefore,  in  brief,  this  is  the  object  of  all  true  policy  and 


ATHENA  IN  THE  HEART. 


319 


true  economy:  ‘‘utmost  multitude  of  good  men  on  every 
given  space  of  ground  ” — imperatively  always,  good,  sound, 
honest  men,  not  a mob  of  white-faced  thieves.  So  that,  on 
the  one  hand,  all  aristocracy  is  wrong  which  is  inconsistent 
with  numbers  ; and,  on  the  other,  all  numbers  are  wrong 
which  are  inconsistent  with  breeding. 

122.  Then,  touching  the  accumulation  of  ^wealth  for  the 
maintenance  of  such  men,  observe,  that  you  must  never  use 
the  terms  “money”  and  “wealth”  as  synonymous.  Wealth 
consists  of  the  good,  and  therefore  useful,  things  in  the  pos- 
session of  the  nation  : money  is  only  the  written  or  coined 
sign  of  the  relative  quantities  of  wealth  in  each  person’s  pos- 
session. All  money  is  a divisible  title-deed,  of  immense  im- 
portance as  an  expression  of  right  to  property  ; but  absolutely 
valueless,  as  property  itself.  Thus,  supposing  a nation 
isolated  from  all  others,  the  money  in  its  possession  is,  at  its 
maximum  value,  worth  all  the  property  of  the  nation,  and  no 
more,  because  no  more  can  be  got  for  it.  And  the  money  of 
all  nations  is  worth,  at  its  maximum,  the  property  of  all 
nations,  and  no  more,  for  no  more  can  be  got  for  it.  Thus, 
every  article  of  property  produced  increases,  by  its  value,  the 
value  of  all  the  money  in  the  world,  and  every  article  of 
property  destroyed,  diminishes  the  value  of  all  the  money  in 
the  world.  If  ten  men  are  cast  away  on  a rock,  with  a 
thousand  pounds  in  their  pockets,  and  there  is  on  the  rock 
neither  food  nor  shelter,  their  money  is  worth  simply  nothing ; 
for  nothing  is  to  be  had  for  it : if  they  build  ten  huts,  and 
recover  a cask  of  biscuit  from  the  wreck,  then  their  thousand 
pounds,  at  its  maximum  value,  is  worth  ten  huts  and  a cask 
of  biscuit.  If  they  make  their  thousand  pounds  into  two 
thousand  by  writing  new  notes,  their  two  thousand  pounds 
are  still  only  worth  ten  huts  and  a cask  of  biscuit.  And  the 
law  of  relative  value  is  the  same  for  all  the  world,  and  all  the 
people  in  it,  and  all  their  property,  as  for  ten  men  on  a rock. 
Therefore,  money  is  truly  and  finally  lost  in  the  degree  in 
which  its  value  is  taken  from  it,  (ceasing  in  that  degree  to  be 
money  at  all) ; and  it  is  truly  gained  in  the  degree  in  which 
value  is  added  to  it.  Thus*  suppose  the  money  coined  by  the 


320 


THE  QUEEN  OF  THE  AIR. 


nation  to  be  a fixed  sum,  divided  very  minutely,  (say  into 
irancs  and  cents),  and  neither  to  be  added  to,  nor  diminished. 
Then  every  grain  of  food  and  inch  of  lodging  added  to  its 
possessions  makes  every  cent  in  its  pockets  worth  propor- 
tionally more,  and  every  grain  of  food  it  consumes,  and  inch 
of  roof  it  allows  to  fall  to  ruin,  makes  every  cent  in  its  pockets 
worth  less  ; and  this  with  mathematical  precision.  The  im- 
mediate value  of  the  money  at  particular  times  and  places  de- 
pends, indeed,  on  the  humours  of  the  possessors  of  property ; 
but  the  nation  is  in  the  one  case  gradually  getting  richer  ; 
and  will  feel  the  pressure  of  poverty  steadily  everywhere  re- 
laxing, whatever  the  humours  of  individuals  may  be  ; and,  in 
the  other  case,  is  gradually  growing  poorer,  and  the  pressure 
of  its  poverty  will  every  day  tell  more  and  more,  in  ways  that 
it  cannot  explain,  but  will  most  bitterly  feel. 

123.  The  actual  quantity  of  money  which  it  coins,  in  rela- 
tion to  its  real  property,  is  therefore  only  of  consequence  for 
convenience  of  exchange  ; but  the  proportion  in  which  this 
quantity  of  money  is  divided  among  individuals  expresses 
their  various  rights  to  greater  or  less  proportions  of  the  na- 
tional property,  and  must  not,  therefore,  be  tampered  with. 
The  Government  may  at  anytime,  with  perfect  justice,  double 
its  issue  of  coinage,  if  it  gives  every  man  who  had  ten  pounds 
in  his  pocket,  another  ten  pounds,  and  every  man  who  had  ten 
pence,  another  ten  pence  ; for  it  thus  does  not  make  any  of 
them  richer  ; it  merely  divides  their  counters  for  them  into  twice 
the  number.  But  if  it  gives  the  newly-issued  coins  to  other 
people,  or  keeps  them  itself,  it  simply  robs  the  former  holders 
to  precisely  that  extent.  This  most  important  function  of 
money,  as  a title-deed,  on  the  non-violation  of  which  all  na- 
tional soundness  of  commerce  and  peace  of  life  depend,  has 
been  never  rightly  distinguished  by  economists  from  the 
quite  unimportant  function  of  money  as  a means  of  exchange. 
You  can  exchange  goods, — at  some  inconvenience,  indeed, 
but  still  you  can  contrive  to  do  it, — without  money  at  all  ; 
but  you  cannot  maintain  your  claim  to  the  savings  of  your 
past  life  without  a document  declaring  the  amount  of  them, 
which  the  nation  and  its  Government  will  respect. 


ATHENA  IN  THE  HEART. 


321 


124.  And  as  economists  have  lost  sight  of  this  great  func- 
tion of  money  in  relation  to  individual  rights,  so  they  have 
equally  lost  sight  of  its  function  as  a representative  of  good 
things.  That,  for  every  good  thing  produced,  so  much  money 
is  put  into  everybody’s  pocket — is  the  one  simple  and  primal 
truth  for  the  public  to  know,  and  for  economists  to  teach 
How  many  of  them  have  taught  it?  Some  have  ; but  only 
incidentally  ; and  others  will  say  it  is  a truism.  If  it  be,  do 
the  public  know  it  ? Does  your  ordinary  English  house- 
holder know  that  every  costly  dinner  he  gives  has  destroyed 
for  ever  as  much  money  as  it  is  worth  ? Does  every  well- 
educated  girl — do  even  the  women  in  high  political  position 
— know  that  every  fine  dress  they  wear  themselves,  or  cause 
to  be  worn,  destroys  precisely  so  much  of  the  national  money 
as  the  labour  and  material  of  it  are  worth  ? If  this  be  a tru- 
ism, it  is  one  that  needs  proclaiming  somewhat  louder. 

125.  That,  then,  is  the  relation  of  money  and  goods.  So 
mqch  goods,  so  much  money  ; so  little  goods,  so  little  money 
But,  as  there  is  this  true  relation  between  money  and  “ goods,” 
or  good  things,  so  there  is  a false  relation  between  money  and 
“ bads,”  or  bad  things.  Many  bad  things  will  fetch  a price 
in  exchange  ; but  they  do  not  increase  the  wealth  of  the 
country.  Good  wine  is  wealth — drugged  wine  is  not ; good 
meat  is  wealth — putrid  meat  is  not  ; good  pictures  are  wealth 
— bad  pictures  are  not.  A thing  is  worth  precisely  what  it 
can  do  for  you  ; not  what  you  choose  to  pay  for  it.  You  may 
pay  a thousand  pounds  for  a cracked  pipkin,  if  you  please  ; 
but  you  do  not  by  that  transaction  make  the  cracked  pipkin 
worth  one  that  will  hold  water,  nor  that,  nor  any  pipkin  what- 
soever, worth  more  than  it  was  before  you  paid  such  sum  for 
it.  You  may,  perhaps,  induce  many  potters  to  manufacture 
fissured  pots,  and  many  amateurs  of  clay  to  buy  them  ; but 
the  nation  is,  through  the  whole  business  so  encouraged,  rich 
by  the  addition  to  its  wealth  of  so  many  potsherds— and 
there  an  end.  The  thing  is  worth  what  it  can  do  for  you, 
not  what  you  think  it  can  ; and  most  national  luxuries,  now* 
a-days,  are  a form  of  potsherd,  provided  for  the  solace  ot  a 
self-complacent  Job,  voluntary  sedent  on  his  ash-heap. 


TEE  QUEEN  OF  TEE  ATE. 


126.  And,  also,  so  far  as  good  things  already  exist,  and 
have  become  media  of  exchange,  the  variations  in  their  prices 
are  absolutely  indifferent  to  the  nation.  Whether  Mr.  A.  buys 
a Titian  from  Mr.  B.  for  twenty,  or  for  two  thousand,  pounds, 
matters  not  sixpence  to  the  national  revenue  : that  is  to  say, 
it  matters  in  nowise  to  the  revenue  whether  Mr.  A.  has  the 
picture,  and  Mr.  B.  the  money,  or  Mr.  B.  the  picture,  and  Mr. 
A.  the  money.  Which  of  them  will  spend  the  money  most 
wisely,  and  which  of  them  will  keep  the  picture  most  carefully, 
is,  indeed,  a matter  of  some  importance ; but  this  cannot  be 
known  by  the  mere  fact  of  exchange. 

127.  The  wealth  of  a nation  then,  first,  and  its  peace  and 
well-being  besides,  depend  on  the  number  of  persons  it  can 
employ  in  making  good  and  useful  things.  I say  its  well-being 
also,  for  the  character  of  men  depends  more  on  their  occupa- 
tions than  on  any  teaching  we  can  give  them,  or  principles 
with  which  we  can  imbue  them.  The  employment  forms  the 
habits  of  body  and  mind,  and  these  are  the  constitution  of  the 
man  ; — the  greater  part  of  his  moral  or  persistent  nature, 
whatever  effort,  under  special  excitement,  he  may  make  to 
change,  or  overcome  them.  Employment  is  the  half,  and  the 
primal  half,  of  education — it  is  the  warp  of  it ; and  the  fine- 
ness or  the  endurance  of  all  subsequently  woven  pattern  de- 
pends wholly  on  its  straightness  and  strength.  And,  what- 
ever difficulty  there  may  be  in  tracing  through  past  history 
the  remoter  connections  of  event  and  cause,  one  chaip  of 
sequence  is  always  clear  : the  formation,  namely,  of  the  char- 
acter of  nations  by  their  employments,  and  the  determination 
of  their  final  fate  by  their  character.  The  moment,  and  the 
first  direction  of  decisive  revolutions,  often  depend  on  acci- 
dent ; but  their  persistent  course,  and  their  consequences,  de- 
pend wholly  on  the  nature  of  the  people.  The  passing  of  the 
Reform  Bill  by  the  late  English  Parliament  may  have  been 
more  or  less  accidental  : the  results  of  the  measure  now  rest 
on  the  character  of  the  English  people,  as  it  has  been  devel- 
oped by  their  recent  interests,  occupations,  and  habits  of  life. 
Whether,  as  a body,  they  employ  their  new  powers  for  good 
©r  evil,  will  depend,  not  on  their  facilities  of  knowledge,  noi 


ATHENA  IN  THE  HEART. 


323 


even  on  the  general  intelligence  they  may  possess  ; but  on  the 
number  of  persons  among  them  whom  wholesome  employ- 
ments have  rendered  familiar  with  the  duties,  and  modest  in 
their  estimate  of  the  promises,  of  Life. 

128.  But  especially  in  framing  laws  respecting  the  treatment 
or  employment  of  improvident  and  more  or  less  vicious  per-* 
sons,  it  is  to  be  remembered  that  as  men  are  not  made  heroes 
by  the  performance  of  an  act  of  heroism,  but  must  be  brave 
before  they  can  perform  it,  so  they  are  not  made  villains  by 
the  commission  of  a crime,  but  were  villains  before  they  com- 
mitted it  ; and  that  the  right  of  public  interference  with  their 
conduct  begins  when  they  begin  to  corrupt  themselves  ; — not 
merely  at  the  moment  when  they  have  proved  themselves 
hopelessly  corrupt. 

All  measures  of  reformation  are  effective  in  exact  propor- 
tion to  their  timeliness : partial  decay  may  be  cut  away  and 
cleansed  ; incipient  error  corrected  : but  there  is  a point  at 
which  corruption  can  no  more  be  stayed,  nor  wandering  re- 
called. It  has  been  the  manner  of  modern  philanthropy  to 
remain  passive  until  that  precise  period,  and  to  leave  the  sick 
to  perish,  and  the  foolish  to  stray,  while  it  spent  itself  in 
frantic  exertions  to  raise  the  dead,  and  reform  the  dust. 

The  recent  direction  of  a great  weight  of  public  opinion 
against  capital  punishment  is,  I trust,  the  sign  of  an  awaken- 
ing perception  that  punishment  is  the  last  and  worst  instru- 
ment in  the  hands  of  the  legislator  for  the  prevention  of  crime. 
The  true  instruments  of  reformation  are  employment  and  re- 
ward ; — not  punishment.  Aid  the  willing,  honour  the  vir- 
tuous, and  compel  the  idle  into  occupation,  and  there  will  be 
no  need  for  the  compelling  of  any  into  the  great  and  last  in- 
dolence of  death. 

129.  The  beginning  of  ail  true  reformation  among  the 
criminal  classes  depends  on  the  establishment  of  institutions 
for  their  active  employment,  while  their  criminality  is  still 
unripe,  and  their  feelings  of  self-respect,  capacities  of  affec- 
tion, and  sense  of  justice,  not  altogether  quenched.  That 
those  who  are  desirous  of  employment  should  always  be  able 
to  find  it,  will  hardly,  at  the  present  day,  be  disputed  : bi»$ 


*’9JL 


THE  QUEEN  OF  THE  AIR 


that  those  who  are  tmdesirous  of  employment  should  of  aH 
}>ersons  be  the  most  strictly  compelled  to  it,  the  public  are 
hardly  yet  convinced  ; and  they  must  be  convinced.  If  the 
danger  of  the  principal  thoroughfares  in  their  capital  city,  and 
the  multiplication  of  crimes  more  ghastly  than  ever  yet  dis- 
graced a nominal  civilization,  are  not  enough,  they  will  not 
have  to  wait  long  before  they  receive  sterner  lessons.  For 
our  neglect  of  the  lower  orders  has  reached  a point  at  which 
it  begins  to  bear  its  necessary  fruit,  and  every  day  makes  the 
fields,  not  whiter,  but  more  sable,  to  harvest. 

130.  The  general  principles  by  which  employment  should 
be  regulated  may  be  briefly  stated  as  follows : — 

1.  There  being  three  great  classes  of  mechanical  powers  at 
our  disposal,  namely,  (a)  vital  or  muscular  power  ; ( b ) natural 
mechanical  power  of  wind,  water,  and  electricity  ; and  (cj 
artificially  produced  mechanical  power  ; it  is  the  first  princi- 
ple of  economy  to  use  all  available  vital  power  first,  then  the 
inexpensive  natural  forces,  and  only  at  last  to  have  recourse 
to  artificial  power.  And  this,  because  it  is  always  better  for 
a man  to  work  with  his  own  hands  to  feed  and  clothe  himself, 
than  to  stand  idle  while  a machine  works  for  him  ; and  if  he 
cannot  by  all  the  labour  healthily  possible  to  him,  feed  and 
clothe  himself,  then  it  is  better  to  use  an  inexpensive  machine 
— as  a windmill  or  watermill — than  a costly  one  like  a steam- 
engine,  so  long  as  we  have  natural  force  enough  at  our  dis- 
posal. Whereas  at  present  we  continually  hear  economists 
regret  that  the  water-power  of  the  cascades  or  streams  of  a 
country  should  be  lost,  but  hardly  ever  that  the  muscular 
power  of  its  idle  inhabitants  should  be  lost ; and,  again,  we 
see  vast  districts,  as  the  south  of  Provence,  where  a strong 
wind  * blows  steadily  all  day  long  for  six  days  out  of  seven 
throughout  the  year,  without  a windmill,  while  men  are  con- 
tinually employed  a hundred  miles  to  the  north,  in  digging 
fuel  to  obtain  artificial  powder.  But  the  principal  point  of  all 
to  be  kept  in  view  is,  that  in  every  idle  arm  and  shoulder 

* In  order  fully  to  utilize  this  natural  power,  we  only  require  ma- 
chinery to  turn  the  variable  into  a constant  velocity— -no  insuroaonnt- 
able  difficulty. 


ATHENA  IN  THE  HEART. 


325 


throughout  the  country  there  is  a certain  quantity  of  force, 
equivalent  to  the  force  of  so  much  fuel ; and  that  it  is  mere 
insane  waste  to  dig  for  coal  for  our  force,  while  the  vital  force 
is  unused  ; and  not  only  unused,  but,  in  being  so,  corrupting 
and  polluting  itself.  We  waste  our  coal,  and  spoil  our 
humanity  at  one  and  the  same  instant.  Therefore,  wherever 
there  is  an  idle  arm,  always  save  coal  with  it,  and  the  stores 
of  England  will  last  all  the  longer.  And  precisely  the  same 
argument  answers  the  common  one  about  “ taking  employ- 
ment out  of  the  hands  of  the  industrious  labourer."  Why, 
what  is  “ employment  ” but  the  putting  out  of  vital  force  in- 
stead of  mechanical  force  ? We  are  continually  in  search  of 
means  of  strength, — to  pull,  to  hammer,  to  fetch,  to  carry  ; 
we  waste  our  future  resources  to  get  this  strength,  while  we 
leave  all  the  living  fuel  to  burn  itself  out  in  mere  pestiferous 
breath,  and  production  of  its  variously  noisome  forms  of 
ashes ! Clearly,  if  we  wrant  fire  for  force,  we  want  men  for 
force  first.  The  industrious  hands  must  already  have  so  much 
to  do  that  they  can  do  no  more,  or  else  we  need  not  use 
machines  to  help  them.  Then  use  the  idle  hands  first.  In- 
stead of  dragging  petroleum  with  a steam-engine,  put  it  on  a 
canal,  and  drag  it  with  human  arms  and  shoulders.  Petro- 
leum cannot  possibly  be  in  a hurry  to  arrive  anywhere.  We 
can  always  order  that,  and  many  other  things,  time  enough 
before  we  want  it.  So,  the  carriage  of  everything  which  does 
not  spoil  by  keeping  may  most  wholesomely  and  safely  be 
done  by  water-traction  and  sailing  vessels ; and  no  healthier 
work  can  men  be  put  to,  nor  better  discipline,  than  such 
active  porterage. 

131.  (2nd.)  In  employing  all  the  muscular  power  at  our 
disposal  we  are  to  make  the  employments  we  choose  as  edu- 
cational as  possible.  For  a wholesome  human  employment  is 
the  first  and  best  method  of  education,  mental  as  wrell  as 
bodily.  A man  taught  to  plough,  row,  or  steer  well,  and  a 
woman  taught  to  cook  properly,  and  make  a dress  neatly,  are 
already  educated  in  many  essential  moral  habits.  Labour 
considered  as  a discipline  has  hitherto  been  thought  of  only 
for  criminals  ; but  the  real  and  noblest  function  of  labour  is 
7 


326  THE  QUEEN  OF  THE  AIR. 

to  prevent  crime,  and  not  to  be  iteformatory,  but  Forma* 
tory. 

132.  The  third  great  principle  of  employment  is,  that  when- 
ever there  is  pressure  of  poverty  to  be  met,  all  enforced  occu- 
pation should  be  directed  to  the  production  of  useful  articles 
only,  that  is  to  say,  of  food,  of  simple  clothing,  of  lodging,  or 
of  the  means  of  conveying,  distributing,  and  preserving  these. 
It  is  yet  little  understood  by  economists,  and  not  at  all  by  the 
public,  that  the  employment  of  persons  in  a useless  business 
cannot  relieve  ultimate  distress.  The  money  given  to  employ 
riband-makers  at  Coventry  is  merely  so  much  mone}'  with- 
drawn from  what  would  have  employed  lace-makers  at  Honi- 
ton  : or  makers  of  something  else,  as  useless,  elsewhere.  We 
must  spend  our  money  in  some  way,  at  some  time,  and  it 
cannot  at  any  time  be  spent  without  employing  somebody. 
If  we  gamble  it  away,  the  person  who  wins  it  must  spend  it ; 
if  we  lose  it  in  a railroad  speculation,  it  has  gone  into  some 
one  else’s  pockets,  or  merely  gone  to  pay  navvies  for  making 
a useless  embankment,  instead  of  to  pay  riband  or  button 
makers  for  making  useless  ribands  or  buttons  ; we  cannot 
lose  it  (unless  by  actually  destroying  it)  without  giving  em- 
ployment of  some  kind  ; and  therefore,  whatever  quantity  of 
money  exists,  the  relative  quantity  of  employment  must  some 
day  come  out  of  it ; but  the  distress  of  the  nation  signifies 
that  the  employments  given  have  produced  nothing  that  will 
support  its  existence.  Men  cannot  live  on  ribands,  or  buttons, 
or  velvet,  or  by  going  quickly  from  place  to  place  ; and  every 
coin  spent  in  useless  ornament,  or  useless  motion,  is  so  much 
withdrawn  from  the  national  means  of  life.  One  of  the  most 
beautiful  uses  of  railroads  is  to  enable  A to  travel  from  the 
town  of  X to  take  away  the  business  of  B in  the  town  of  Y *, 
while,  in  the  meantime,  B travels  from  the  town  of  Y to  take 
away  A’s  business  in  the  town  of  X.  But  the  national  wealth 
is  not  increased  by  these  operations.  Whereas  every  coin 
spent  in  cultivating  ground,  in  repairing  lodging,  in  making 
necessary  and  good  roads,  in  preventing  danger  by  sea  or 
land,  and  in  carriage  of  food  or  fuel  where  they  are  required, 
is  so  much  absolute  and  direct  gain  to  the  whole  nation.  To 


ATHENA  IN  THE  HEART. 


327 

cultivate  land  round  Coventry  makes  living  easier  at  Honiton, 
and  every  acre  of  sand  gained  from  the  sea  in  Lincolnshire, 
makes  life  easier  all  over  England. 

4th,  and  lastly.  Since  for  every  idle  person,  some  one  else 
must  be  working  somewhere  to  provide  him  with  clothes  and 
food,  and  doing,  therefore,  double  the  quantity  of  work  that 
would  be  enough  for  his  own  needs,  it  is  only  a matter  of  pure 
justice  to  compel  the  idle  person  to  work  for  his  maintenance 
himself.  The  conscription  has  been  used  in  many  countries,  to 
take  away  labourers  who  supported  their  families,  from  their  use- 
ful work,  and  maintain  them  for  purposes  chiefly  of  military  dis- 
play at  the  public  expense.  Since  this  has  been  long  endured 
by  the  most  civilized  nations,  let  it  not  be  thought  that  they 
wTould  not  much  more  gladly  endure  a conscription  which 
should  seize  only  the  vicious  and  idle,  already  living  by  criminal 
procedures  at  the  public  expense  ; and  which  should  discipline 
and  educate  them  to  labour  which  would  not  only  maintain  them- 
selves, but  be  serviceable  to  the  commonwealth.  The  question  is 
simply  this  : — wTe  must  feed  the  drunkard,  vagabond,  and  thief  ; 
— but  shall  we  do  so  by  letting  them  steal  their  food,  and  do  no 
work  for  it  ? or  shall  we  give  them  their  food  in  appointed  quan- 
tity, and  enforce  their  doing  work  which  shall  be  worth  it  ? 
and  which,  in  process  of  time,  will  redeem  their  own  charac- 
ters, and  make  them  happy  and  serviceable  members  of  society  ? 

I find  by  me  a violent  little  fragment  of  undelivered  lecture, 
which  puts  this,  perhaps,  still  more  clearly.  Your  idle  people, 
(it  says,)  as  they  are  now,  are  not  merely  waste  coal-beds. 
They  are  explosive  coal-beds,  which  you  pay  a high  annual 
rent  for.  You  are  keeping  all  these  idle  persons,  remember,  at 
far  greater  cost  than  if  they  were  busy.  Do  you  think  a 
vicious  person  eats  less  than  an  honest  one?  or  that  it  is 
cheaper  to  keep  a bad  man  drunk,  than  a good  man  sober  ? 
There  is,  I suppose,  a dim  idea  in  the  mind  of  the  public,  that 
they  don’t  pay  for  the  maintenance  of  people  they  don’t  em- 
ploy. Those  staggering  rascals  at  the  street  corner,  grouped 
around  its  splendid  angle  of  public-house,  we  fancy  they  are 
no  servants  of  ours?  that  we  pay  them  no  wages?  that  no  cash 
Dut  of  our  pockets  is  spent  over  that  beer-stained  counter  I 


THE  QUEEN  OB 1 THE  AIR. 


328 

Whose  cash  is  it  then  they  are  spending?  It  is  not  got 
honestly  by  work.  You  know  that  much.  Where  do  they 
get  it  from  ? Who  has  paid  for  their  dinner  and  their  pot  ? 
Those  fellows  can  only  live  in  one  of  two  ways — by  pillage  or 
beggary.  Their  annual  income  by  thieving  comes  out  of  the 
public  pocket,  you  will  admit.  They  are  not  cheaply  fed,  so 
far  as  they  are  fed  by  theft.  But  the  rest  of  their  living — all 
that  they  don’t  steal — they  must  beg.  Not  with  success  from 
you,  you  think.  Wise  as  benevolent,  you  never  gave  a penny 
in  “ indiscriminate  charity.”  Well,  I congratulate  you  on  the 
freedom  of  your  conscience  from  that  sin,  mine  being  bitterly 
burdened  with  the  memory  of  many  a sixpence  given  to  beg- 
gars of  whom  I' knew  nothing,  but  that  they  had  pale  faces 
and  thin  waists.  But  it  is  not  that  kind  of  street  beggary 
that  the  vagabonds  of  our  people  chiefly  practise.  It  is  home 
beggary  that  is  the  worst  beggars’  trade.  Home  alms  which 
it  is  their  worst  degradation  to  receive.  Those  scamps  know 
well  enough  that  you  and  your  wisdom  are  worth  nothing  to 
them.  They  won’t  beg  of  you.  They  w7ill  beg  of  their 
sisters,  and  mothers,  and  wives,  and  children,  and  of  any  one 
else  who  is  enough  ashamed  of  being  of  the  same  blood  with 
them  to  pay  to  keep  them  out  of  sight.  Every  one  of  those 
blackguards  is  the  bane  of  a family.  That  is  the  deadly  “ in- 
discriminate charity  ” — the  charity  which  each  household  pays 
to  maintain  its  own  private  curse. 

133.  And  you  think  that  is  no  affair  of  yours?  and  that 
every  family  ought  to  watch  over  and  subdue  its  own  living 
plague  ? Put  it  to  yourselves  this  way,  then  : suppose  you 
knew  every  one  of  those  families  kept  an  idol  in  an  inner 
room — a big-bellied  bronze  figure,  to  which  daily  sacrifice  and 
oblation  was  made  ; at  whose  feet  so  much  beer  and  brandy 
was  poured  out  every  morning  on  the  ground : and  before 
which,  every  night,  good  meat,  enough  for  two  men’s  keep, 
was  set,  and  left,  till  it  was  putrid,  and  then  carried  out  and 
thrown  on  the  dunghill ; — you  would  put  an  end  to  that  form 
of  idolatry  with  your  best  diligence,  I suppose.  You  would 
understand  then  that  the  beer,  and  brandy,  and  meat,  were 
wasted  ; and  that  the  burden  imposed  by  each  household  on 


ATHENA  IN  THE  HEART. 


329 


itself  lay  heavily  through  them  on  the  whole  community? 
But,  suppose  farther,  that  this  idol  were  not  of  silent  and 
quiet  bronze  only  ; — but  an  ingenious  mechanism,  wound  up 
every  morning,  to  run  itself  down  in  automatic  blasphemies  ; 
that  it  struck  and  tore  with  its  hands  the  people  who  set  food 
before  it ; that  it  was  anointed  with  poisonous  unguents  and 
infected  the  air  for  miles  round.  You  would  interfere  with 
the  idolatry  then,  straightway  ? Will  you  not  interfere  with 
it  now,  when  the  infection  that  the  venomous  idol  spreads  is 
not  merely  death — -but  sin  ? 

134.  So  far  the  old  lecture.  Returning  to  cool  English,  the 
end  of  the  matter  is,  that  sooner  or  later,  we  shall  have  to 
register  our  people  ; and  to  know  how  they  live  ; and  to  make 
sure,  if  they  are  capable  of  work,  that  right  work  is  given 
them  to  do. 

The  different  classes  of  work  for  which  bodies  of  men  could 
be  consistently  organized,  might  ultimately  become  numerous; 
these  following  divisions  of  occupation  may  at  once  be  sug- 
gested : — 

1.  Road-maJcing.  — Good  roads  to  be  made,  wherever  needed, 
and  kept  in  repair ; and  the  annual  loss  on  unfrequented 
roads,  in  spoiled  horses,  strained  wheels,  and  time,  done 
away  with. 

2.  Bringing  in  of  waste  land. — All  waste  lands  not  necessary 
for  public  health,  to  be  made  accessible  and  gradually  re- 
claimed ; chiefly  our  wide  and  waste  seashores.  Not  our 
mountains  nor  moorland.  Our  life  depends  on  them  more 
than  on  the  best  arable  we  have. 

3.  Harbour -making. — The  deficiencies  of  safe  or  convenient 
harbourage  in  our  smaller  ports  to  be  remedied  ; other  har- 
bours built  at  dangerous  points  of  coast,  and  a disciplined 
body  of  men  always  kept  in  connection  with  the  pilot  and 
life-boat  services.  There  is  room  for  every  order  of  intelli- 
gence in  this  work,  and  for  a large  body  of  superior  officers. 

4.  Porterage. — All  heavy  goods,  not  requiring  speed  in  transit, 
to  be  carried  (under  preventive  duty  on  transit  by  railroad)  by 
canal-boats,  employing  men  for  draught ; and  the  merchant- 
shipping  service  extended  by  sea  ; so  that  no  ships  may  b© 


330  THE  QUEEN  OF  THE  AIR. 

wrecked  for  want  of  hands,  while  there  are  idle  ones  in  mis* 
chief  on  shore. 

5.  Repair  of  buildings. — A body  of  men  in  various  trades  to  be 
kept  at  the  disposal  of  the  authorities  in  every  large  town,  for 
repair  of  buildings,  especially  the  houses  of  the  poorer  orders, 
who,  if  no  such  provision  were  made,  could  not  employ  work- 
men on  their  own  houses,  but  would  simply  live  with  rent 
walls  and  roofs. 

6.  Dressmaking. — Substantial  dress,  of  standard  material  and 
kind,  strong  shoes,  and  stout  bedding,  to  be  manufactured 
for  the  poor,  so  as  to  render  it  unnecessary  for  them,  unless 
by  extremity  of  improvidence,  to  wear  cast  clothes,  or  be 
without  sufficiency  of  clothing. 

7.  Works  of  Art. — Schools  to  be  established  on  thoroughly 
sound  principles  of  manufacture,  and  use  of  materials,  and 
with  sample  and,  for  given  periods,  unalterable  modes  of 
work  ; first,  in  pottery,  and  embracing  gradually  metal  work, 
sculpture,  and  decorative  painting  ; the  two  points  insisted 
upon,  in  distinction  from  ordinary  commercial  establishments, 
being  perfectness  of  material  to  the  utmost  attainable  degree  ; 
and  the  production  of  everything  by  hand-work,  for  the  special 
purpose  of  developing  personal  power  and  skill  in  the  work- 
man. 

The  two  last  departments,  and  some  subordinate  branches  of 
the  others,  would  include  the  service  of  women  and  children. 

I give  now,  for  such  farther  illustration  as  they  contain  of 
the  points  I desire  most  to  insist  upon  with  respect  both  to 
education  and  employment,  a portion  of  the  series  of  notes 
published  some  time  ago  in  the  Art  Journal , on  the  opposition 
of  Modesty  and  Liberty,  and  the  unescapable  law  of  wise  re- 
straint. I am  sorry  that  they  are  written  obscurely  ; — and  it 
may  be  thought  affectedly  : — but  the  fact  is,  I have  always  had 
three  different  ways  of  writing ; one,  with  the  single  view  of 
making  myself  understood,  in  w’hich  I necessarily  omit  a great 
deal  of  what  comes  into  my  head  : — another,  in  which  I say 
what  I think  ought  to  be  said,  in  what  I suppose  to  be  the 
best  words  I can  find  for  it ; (which  is  in  reality  an  affected 
style— be  it  good  or  bad  ;)  and  my  third  way  of  writing  is  to 


ATHENA  IN  THE  HEART . 


say  all  that  comes  into  my  head  for  my  own  pleasure,  in  the 
first  words  that  come,  retouching  them  afterwards  into  (ap- 
proximate) grammar.  These  notes  for  the  Art  Journal  were 
so  written  ; and  I like  them  myself,  of  course  ; but  ask  the 
reader’s  pardon  for  their  confusedness. 

135.  “ Sir,  it  cannot  be  better  done.” 

We  will  insist,  with  the  reader’s  permission,  on  this  com- 
fortful saying  of  Albert  Durer’s,  in  order  to  find  out,  if  we 
may,  what  Modesty  is  ; which  it  will  be  well  for  painters, 
readers,  and  especially  critics,  to  know,  before  going  farther. 
What  it  is  ; or,  rather,  who  she  is  ; her  fingers  being  among 
the  deftest  in  laying  the  ground-threads  of  Aglaia’s  Cestus. 

For  this  same  opinion  of  Albert’s  is  entertained  by  many 
other  people  respecting  their  own  doings — a very  prevalent 
opinion,  indeed,  I find  it ; and  the  answer  itself,  though 
rarely  made  with  the  Nuremberger’s  crushing  decision,  is 
nevertheless  often  enough  intimated,  with  delicacy,  by  artists 
of  all  countries,  in  their  various  dialects.  Neither  can  it  al- 
ways be  held  an  entirely  modest  one,  as  it  assuredly  was  in 
the  man  who  would  sometimes  estimate  a piece  of  his  uncon- 
querable work  at  only  the  worth  of  a plate  of  fruit,  or  a flask 
of  wine — would  have  taken  even  one  ‘‘fig  for  it,”  kindly  of- 
fered ; or  given  it  royally  for  nothing,  to  show  his  hand  to  a 
fellow-king  of  his  own,  or  any  other  craft — as  Gainsborough 
gave  the  “Boy  at  the  Stile  ” for  a solo  on  the  violin.  An  en- 
tirely modest  saying,  I repeat,  in  him — not  always  in  us.  For 
Modesty  is  “the  measuring  virtue,”  the  virtue  of  modes  or 
limits.  She  is,  indeed,  said  to  be  only  the  third  or  youngest 
of  the  children  of  the  cardinal  virtue,  Temperance  ; and  apt 
to  be  despised,  being  more  given  to  arithmetic,  and  other  vul- 
gar studies  (Cinderella-like)  than  her  elder  sisters : but  she 
is  useful  in  the  household,  and  arrives  at  great  results  with 
her  yard-measure  and  slate-pencil — a pretty  little  Marehande 
des  Modes,  cutting  her  dress,  always  according  to  the  silk  (if 
this  be  the  proper  feminine  reading  of  “ coat  according  to  the 
cloth  ”),  so  that,  consulting  with  her  carefully  of  a morning, 
men  get  to  know  not  only  their  income,  but  their  inbeing — to 
know  themselves,  that  is,  in  a gauger’s  manner,  round,  and  up 


332 


THE  QUEEN  OF  THE  AIR . 


and  down — surface  and  contents  ; what  is  in  them,  and  what 
may  be  got  out  of  them  ; and,  in  fine,  their  entire  canon  of 
weight  and  capacity.  That  yard-measure  of  Modesty’s  lent  to 
those  who  will  use  it,  is  a curious  musical  reed,  and  will  go 
round  and  round  waists  that  are  slender  enough,  with  latent 
melody  in  every  joint  of  it,  the  dark  root  only  being  soundless, 
moist  from  the  wave  wherein 

“ Null’  altra  pianta  die  facesse  fronda 
O indurasse,  puote  aver  vita.”  * 

But  when  the  little  sister  herself  takes  it  in  hand,  to  measure 
things  outside  of  us  with,  the  joints  shoot  out  in  an  amazing 
manner  : the  four-square  walls  even  of  celestial  cities  being 
measurable  enough  by  that  reed ; and  the  way  pointed  to 
them,  though  only  to  be  followed,  or  even  seen,  in  the  dim 
starlight  shed  down  from  worlds  amidst  which  there  is  no 
name  of  Measure  any  more,  though  the  reality  of  it  always. 
For,  indeed,  to  all  true  modesty  the  necessary  business  is 
not  inlook,  but  outlook,  and  especially  wplook  : it  is  only  her 
sister,  Shamefacedness,  v7ho  is  known  by  the  drooping  lashes 
— Modesty,  quite  otherwise,  by  her  large  eyes  full  of  wonder  ; 
for  she  never  contemns  herself,  nor  is  ashamed  of  herself,  but 
forgets  herself — at  least  until  she  has  done  something  worth 
memory.  It  is  easy  to  peep  and  potter  about  one’s  own  defi- 
ciencies in  a quiet  immodest  discontent  ; but  Modesty  is  so 
pleased  with  other  people’s  doings,  that  she  has  no  leisure  to 
lament  her  own  : and  thus,  knowing  the  fresh  feeling  of  con- 
tentment, unstained  with  thought  of  self,  she  does  not  fear 
being  pleased,  when  there  is  cause,  with  her  own  rightness, 
as  with  another’s,  saying  calmly,  “ Be  it  mine,  or  yours,  or 
whose  else’s  it  may,  it  is  no  matter  ; — this  also  is  well.”  But 
the  right  to  say  such  a thing  depends  on  continual  reverence, 
and  manifold  sense  of  failure.  If  you  have  known  yourself  to 
have  failed,  you  may  trust,  when  it  comes,  the  strange  con- 
sciousness of  success  ; if  you  have  faithfully  loved  the  noble 
work  of  others,  you  need  not  fear  to  speak  with  respect  of 
things  duly  done,  of  your  own. 

* Pur  gator  io,  i.  103. 


ATHENA  IN  THE  HEART. 


333 


130  But  the  principal  good  that  comes  of  art’s  being  foh 
lowed  in  this  reverent  feeling,  is  vitally  manifest  in  the  asso- 
ciative conditions  of  it.  Men  who  know  their  place,  can  take 
it  and  keep  it,  be  it  low  or  high,  contentedly  and  firmly, 
neither  yielding  nor  grasping  ; and  the  harmony  of  hand  and 
thought  follows,  rendering  all  great  deeds  of  art  possible- 
deeds  in  which  the  souls  of  men  meet  like  the  jewels-  in  the 
windows  of  Aladdin’s  palace,  the  little  gems  and  the  large  all 
equally  pure,  needing  no  cement  but  the  fitting  of  facets  ; 
while  the  associative  work  of  immodest  men  is  all  jointless, 
and  astir  with  wormy  ambition  ; putridly  dissolute,  and  for 
ever  on  the  crawl : so  that  if  it  come  together  for  a time,  it 
can  only  be  by  metamorphosis  through  flash  of  volcanic  fire 
out  of  the  vale  of  Siddim,  vitrifying  the  clay  of  it,  and  fasten- 
ing the  slime,  only  to  end  in  wilder  scattering  ; according  to 
the  fate  of  those  oldest,  mightiest,  immodestest  of  builders,  of 
whom  it  is  told  in  scorn,  “ They  had  brick  for  stone,  and  slime 
had  they  for  mortar.” 

137.  The  first  function  of  Modesty,  then,  being  this  recog- 
nition of  place,  her  second  is  the  recognition  of  law,  and  de- 
light in  it,  for  the  sake  of  law  itself,  whether  her  part  be  to 
assert  it,  or  obey.  For  as  it  belongs  to  all  immodesty  to  defy 
or  deny  law,  and  assert  privilege  and  licence,  according  to  its 
own  pleasure  (it  being  therefore  rightly  called  insolent”  that 
is,  “custom-breaking,”  violating  some  usual  and  appointed 
order  to  attain  for  itself  greater  forwardness  or  power),  so  it 
is  the  habit  of  all  modesty  to  love  the  constancy  and  “ solem- 
nity,” or,  literally,  “ accustomedness,”  of  law,  seeking  first 
wliat  are  the  solemn,  appointed,  inviolable  customs  and  gen- 
eral orders  of  nature,  and  of  the  Master  of  nature,  touching 
the  matter  in  hand ; and  striving  to  put  itself,  as  habitually 
and  inviolably,  in  compliance  with  them.  Out  of  which  habit, 
once  established,  arises  what  is  rightly  called  “conscience,” 
not  “science”  merely,  but  “ with-science,”  a science  “with 
us,”  such  as  only  modest  creatures  can  have — with  or  within 
them — and  within  all  creation  besides,  every  member  of  it, 
strong  or  wreak,  witnessing  together,  and  joining  in  the  happy 
consciousness  that  each  one’s  w^ork  is  good ; the  bee  also  being 


334 


THE  QUEEN  OF  THE  AIR. 


profoundly  of  that  opinion  ; and  the  lark ; and  the  swallow, 
in  that  noisy,  but  modestly  upside-down,  Babel  of  hers,  undei 
the  eaves,  with  its  mivolcanic  slime  for  mortar ; and  the  two 
ants  who  are  asking  of  each  other  at  the  turn  of  that  little 
ant’s-foot-worn  path  through  the  moss,  “ lor  via  e lor  for- 
tuna  ; ” and  the  builders  also,  who  built  yonder  pile  of  cloud- 
marble  in  the  west,  and  the  gilder  wrho  gilded  it,  and  is  gone 
down  behind  it. 

138.  But  I think  we  shall  better  understand  what  wTe  ought 
of  the  nature  of  Modesty,  and  of  her  opposite,  by  taking  a 
simple  instance  of  both,  in  the  practice  of  that  art  of  music 
which  the  wisest  have  agreed  in  thinking  the  first  element  of 
education  ; only  I must  ask  the  reader's  patience  with  me 
through  a parenthesis. 

Among  the  foremost  men  whose  powrer  has  had  to  assert 
itself,  though  with  conquest,  yet  with  countless  loss,  through 
peculiarly  English  disadvantages  of  circumstance,  are  assur- 
edly to  be  ranked  together,  both -for  honour  and  for  mourn- 
ing, Thomas  Bewfick  and  George  Cruikshank.  There  is,  how- 
ever, less  cause  for  regret  in  the  instance  of  Bewick.  We 
may  understand  that  it  wras  wrell  for  us  once  to  see  what  an 
entirely  powerful  painter’s  genius,  and  an  entirely  keen  and 
true  man’s  temper,  could  achieve,  together,  unlielped,  but 
also  unharmed,  among  the  black  banks  and  w7olds  of  Tyne. 
But  the  genius  of  Cruikshank  has  been  cast  away  in  an  utterly 
ghastly  and  lamentable  manner  : his  superb  line-work,  worthy 
of  any  class  of  subject,  and  his  powers  of  conception  and 
composition,  of  which  I cannot  venture  to  estimate  the  range 
in  their  degraded  application,  having  been  condemned,  by  his 
fate,  to  be  spent  either  in  rude  jesting,  or  in  vain  war  with 
conditions  of  vice  too  low7  alike  for  record  or  rebuke,  among 
the  dregs  of  the  British  populace.  Yet  perhaps  I am  wrong 
in  regretting  even  this  : it  may  be  an  appointed  lesson  for 
futurity,  that  the  art  of  the  best  English  etcher  in  the  nine- 
teenth century,  spent  on  illustrations  of  the  lives  of  burglars 
and  drunkards,  should  one  day  be  seen  in  museums  beneath 
Greek  vases  fretted  with  drawings  of  the  wars  of  Troy,  or  side 
by  side  with  Durer’s  “ Knight  and  Death.” 


ATHENA  IN  THE  HEART \ 


139.  Be  that  as  it  may,  I am  at  present  glad  to  be  able  to 
refer  to  one  of  these  perpetuations,  by  his  strong  hand,  of 
such  human  character  as  our  faultless  British  constitution 
occasionally  produces,  in  out-of-the-way  corners.  It  is  among 
his  illustrations  of  the  Irish  Rebellion,  and  represents  the 
pillage  and  destruction  of  a gentleman’s  house  by  the  mob. 
They  have  made  a heap  in  the  drawing-room  of  the  furniture 
and  books,  to  set  first  fire  to ; and  are  tearing  up  the  floor 
for  its  more  easily  kindled  planks  : the  less  busily-disposed 
meanwhile  hacking  round  in  rage,  with  axes,  and  smashing 
whjit  they  can  with  butt-ends  of  guns.  I do  not  care  to  fol- 
low with  words  the  ghastly  truth  of  the  picture  into  its  de- 
tail ; but  the  most  expressive  incident  of  the  whole,  and  the 
one  immediately  to  my  purpose,  is  this,  that  one  fellow  has 
sat  himself  at  the  piano,  on  which,  hitting  down  fiercely  with 
his  clenched  fists,  he  plays,  grinning,  such  tune  as  may  be  so 
producible,  to  which  melody  two  of  his  companions,  flourish- 
ing knotted  sticks,  dance,  after  their  maimer,  on  the  top  of 
the  instrument. 

140.  I think  we  have  in  this  conception  as  perfect  an  in- 
stance as  we  require  of  the  low7est  supposable  phase  of  im- 
modest or  licentious  art  in  music  ; the  “inner  consciousness 
of  good  ” being  dim,  even  in  the  musician  and  his  audience  ; 
and  wholly  unsympathized  with,  and  unacknowledged,  by  the 
Delphian,  Vestal,  and  all  other  prophetic  and  cosmic  powers. 
This  represented  scene  came  into  my  mind  suddenfy,  one 
evening,  a few  wreeks  ago,  in  contrast  with  another  which  I 
was  watching  in  its  reality  ; namely,  a group  of  gentle  school- 
girls, leaning  over  Mr.  Charles  Halle  as  he  was  playing  a va- 
riation on  “Home,  sweet  Home.”  They  had  sustained  with 
unwonted  courage  the  glance  of  subdued  indignation  with 
which,  having  just  closed  a rippling  melody  of  Sebastian 
Bach’s  (much  like  what  one  might  fancy  the  singing  of  night- 
ingales would  be  if  they  fed  on  honey  instead  of  flies),  he 
turned  to  the  slight,  popular  air.  But  they  had  their  own 
associations  with  it,  and  besought  for,  and  obtained  it ; and 
pressed  close,  at  first,  in  vain,  to  see  what  no  glance  could 
follow,  the  traversing  of  the  fingers.  They  soon  thought  no 


336 


THE  QUEEN  OF  THE  AIR. 


more  of  seeing.  The  wet  eyes,  round-open,  and  the  little 
scarlet  upper  lips,  lifted,  and  drawn  slightly  together,  in  pas- 
sionate glow  of  utter  wonder,  became  picture-like, — porce- 
lain-like,— in  motionless  joy,  as  the  sweet  multitude  of  low 
notes  fell  in  their  timely  infinities,  like  summer  rain.  Only 
La  Robbia  himself  (nor  even  he,  unless  with  tenderer  use  of 
colour  than  is  usual  in  his  work)  could  have  rendered  some 
image  of  that  listening. 

141.  But  if  the  reader  can  give  due  vitality  in  his  fancy  to 
these  two  scenes,  he  will  have  in  them  representative  types, 
clear  enough  for  all  future  purpose,  of  the  several  agencies  of 
debased  and  perfect  art.  And  the  interval  may  easily  and 
continuously  be  filled  by  mediate  gradations.  Between  the 
entirely  immodest,  unmeasured,  and  (in  evil  sense)  unman- 
liered,  execution  with  the  fist  ; and  the  entirely  modest, 
measured,  and  (in  the  noblest  sense)  mannered,  or  moral’d, 
execution  with  the  finger ; between  the  impatient  and  un- 
practised doing,  containing  in  itself  the  witness  of  lasting 
impatience  and  idleness  through  all  previous  life,  and  the 
patient  and  practised  doing,  containing  in  itself  the  witness 
of  self-restraint  and  unwearied  toil  through  all  previous  life  ; 
— between  the  expressed  subject  and  sentiment  of  home  vio- 
lation, and  the  expressed  subject  and  sentiment  of  home  love  ; 
— between  the  sympathy  of  audience,  given  in  irreverent  and 
contemptuous  rage,  joyless  as  the  rabidness  of  a dog,  and  the 
sympathy  of  audience  given  in  an  almost  appalled  humility  of 
intense,  rapturous,  and  yet  entirely  reasoning  and  reasonable 
pleasure ; — between  these  two  limits  of  octave,  the  reader  will 
find  he  can  class,  according  to  its  modesty,  usefulness,  and 
grace,  or  becomingness  all  other  musical  art.  For  although 
purity  of  purpose  and  fineness  of  execution  by  no  means  go 
together,  degree  to  degree,  (since  fine,  and  indeed  all  but  the 
finest,  work  is  often  spent  in  the  most  wanton  purpose — as  in 
all  our  modern  opera — and  the  rudest  execution  is  again 
often  joined  with  purest  purpose,  as  in  a mother’s  song  to 
her  child),  still  the  entire  accomplishment  of  music  is  only  in 
the  union  of  both.  For  the  difference  between  that  “all  but” 
finest  and  “ finest  ” is  an  infinite  one  ; and  besides  this,  how* 


ATHENA  IN  THE  HEART. 


ever  the  power  of  the  performer,  once  attained,  may  be  after* 
wards  misdirected,  in  slavery  to  popular  passion  or  childish- 
ness, and  spend  itself,  at  its  sweetest,  in  idle  melodies,  cold 
and  ephemeral  (like  Michael  Angelo’s  snow  statue  in  the  other 
art),  or  else  in  vicious  difficulty  and  miserable  noise — •crack- 
ling of  thorns  under  the  pot  of  public  sensuality — still,  the  at , 
t:  tinmen  t of  this  power,  and  the  maintenance  of  it,  involve  al- 
ways in  the  executant  some  virtue  or  courage  of  high  kind  ; 
the  understanding  of  which,  and  of  the  difference  between  the 
discipline  which  develops  it  and  the  disorderly  efforts  of  the 
amateur,  it  will  be  one  of  our  first  businesses  to  estimate 
rightly.  And  though  not  indeed  by  degree  to  degree,  yet  in 
essential  relation  (as  of  winds  to  waves,  the  one  being  always 
the  true  cause  of  the  other,  though  they  are  not  necessarily  of 
equal  force  at  the  same  time),  we  shall  find  vice  in  its  varie- 
ties, with  art-failure, — and  virtue  in  its  varieties,  with  art-suc- 
cess,— fall  and  rise  together  : the  peasant-girl’s  song  at  her 
spinning-wheel,  the  peasant-labourer’s  “to  the  oaks  and  rills,” 
— domestic  music,  feebly  yet  sensitively  skilful, — music  for 
the  multitude,  of  beneficent,  or  of  traitorous  power,— dance- 
melodies,  pure  and  orderly,  or  foul  and  frantic, — march-music, 
blatant  in  mere  fever  of  animal  pugnacity,  or  majestic  with 
force  of  national  duty  and  memory, — song-music,  reckless, 
sensual,  sickly,  slovenly,  forgetful  even  of  the  foolish  words  it 
effaces  with  foolish  noise, — or  thoughtful,  sacred,  healthful, 
artful,  for  ever  sanctifying  noble  thought  with  separately  dis- 
tinguished loveliness  of  belonging  sound, — all  these  families 
and  gradations  of  good  or  evil,  however  mingled,  follow,  in  so  far 
us  they  are  good,  one  constant  law  of  virtue  (or  “ life-strength,” 
Which  is  the  literal  meaning  of  the  word,  and  its  intended  one, 
in  wise  men’s  mouths),  and  in  so  far  as  they  are  evil,  are  evil 
by  outlawry  and  un virtue,  .or  death- weakness.  Then,  passing 
Wholly  beyond  the  domain  of  death,  we  may  still  imagine  the 
ascendant  nobleness  of  the  art.  through  all  the  concordant  life 
pf  incorrupt  creatures,  and  a continually  deeper  harmony  ol 
* puissant  words  and  murmurs  made  to  bless,”  until  we  reach 

“Tlie  undisturbed  song  of  pure  consent, 

Aye  sung  before  the  sapphire-coloured  throne.” 


THE  QUEEN  OF  THE  AIR. 


338 

142.  And  so  far  as  the  sister  arts  can  be  conceived  to  have 
place  'or  office,  their  virtues  are  subject  to  a law  absolutely 
the  same  as  that  of  music,  only  extending  its  authority  into 
more  various  conditions,  owing  to  the  introduction  of  a dis- 
tinctly representative  and  historical  power,  which  acts  under 
logical  as  well  as  mathematical  restrictions,  and  is  capable  of 
endlessly  changeful  fault,  fallacy,  and  defeat,  as  well  as  of 
endlessly  manifold  victory. 

143.  Next  to  Modest}7,  and  her  delight  in  measures,  let  us 
reflect  a little  on  the  character  of  her  adversary,  the  Goddess 
of  Liberty,  and  her  delight  in  absence  of  measures,  or  in  false 
ones.  It  is  true  that  there  are  liberties  and  liberties.  Yon- 
der torrent,  crystal-clear,  and  arrow-swift,  with  its  spray 
leaping  into  the  air  like  white  troops  of  fawns,  is  free  enough. 
Lost,  presently,  amidst  bankless,  boundless  marsh — soaking 
in  slow  shallowness,  as  it  will,  hither  and  thither,  listless, 
among  the  poisonous  reeds  and  unresisting  slime — it  is  free 
also.  We  may  choose  which  liberty  we  like, — the  restraint 
of  voiceful  rock,  or  the  dumb  and  edgeless  shore  of  darkened 
sand.  Of  that  evil  liberty,  which  men  are  now  glorifying, 
and  proclaiming  as  essence  of  gospel  to  all  the  earth,  and  will 
presently,  I suppose,  proclaim  also  to  the  stars,  with  invita- 
tion to  them  out  of  their  courses, — and  of  its  opposite  con- 
tinence, which  is  the  clasp  and  xPV(r^V  nepovY)  of  Aglaia’s  cestus, 
we  must  try  to  find  out  something  true.  For  no  quality  of 
Art  has  been  more  powerful  in  its  influence  on  public  mind  ; 
none  is  more  frequently  the  subject  of  popular  praise,  or  the 
end  of  vulgar  effort,  than  what  we  call  e-  Freedom.”  It  is 
necessary  to  determine  the  justice  or  injustice  of  this  popular 
praise. 

144.  I said,  a little  while  ago,  that  the  practical  teaching  of 
the  masters  of  Art  was  summed  by  .the  O of  Giotto.  ‘-You. 
may  judge  my  masterhood  of  craft,”  Giotto  tells  us,  “ by  see- 
ing that  I can  draw  a circle  unerringly.”  And  we  may  safely 
believe  him,  understanding  him  to  mean,  that — though  more 
may  be  necessary  to  an  artist  than  such  a power — at  least 
this  power  is  necessary.  The  qualities  of  hand  and  eye  nee<? 
ful  to  do  this  are  the  first  conditions  of  artistic  craft 


ATHENA  IN  TEE  HEART 


339 


145.  Try  to  draw  a circle  yourself  with  the  “ free 55  hand, 
and  with  a single  line.  You  cannot  do  it  if  your  hand  trem- 
bles, nor  if  it  hesitates,  nor  if  it  is  unmanageable,  nor  if  it  is 
in  the  common  sense  of  the  word  “ free.”  So  far  from  being 
free,  it  must  be  under  a control  as  absolute  and  accurate  as  if 
it  were  fastened  to  an  inflexible  bar  of  steel.  And  yet  it  must 
move,  under  this  necessary  control,  with  perfect,  untormented 
serenity  of  ease. 

146.  That  is  the  condition  of  all  good  work  whatsoever. 
All  freedom  is  error.  Every  line  you  lay  down  is  either 
right  or  wrong : it  may  be  timidly  and  awkwardly  wrong,  or 
fearlessly  and  impudently  wrong  : the  aspect  of  the  impudent 
wrongness  is  pleasurable  to  vulgar  persons  ; and  is  what  they 
commonly  call  “free”  execution  : the  timid,  tottering,  hesi- 
tating wrongness  is  rarely  so  attractive  ; yet  sometimes,  if 
accompanied  with  good  qualities,  and  right  aims  in  other 
directions,  it  becomes  in  a manner  charming,  like  the  in- 
articulateness of  a child  : but,  whatever  the  charm  or  manner 
of  the  error,  there  is  but  one  question  ultimately  to  be 
asked  respecting  every  line  you  draw,  Is  it  right  or  wrong  ? 
If  right,  it  most  assuredly  is  not  a “ free”’  line,  but  an  in- 
tensely continent,  restrained,  and  considered  line ; and  the 
action  of  the  hand  in  laying  it  is  just  as  decisive,  and  just  as 
“ free  ” as  the  hand  of  a first-rate  surgeon  in  a critical  incision. 
A great  operator  told  me  that  his  hand  could  check  itself 
within  about  the  two-hundredth  of  an  inch,  in  penetrating  a 
membrane  ; and  this,  of  course,  without  the  help  of  sight,  by 
sensation  only.  With  help  of  sight,  and  in  action  on  a sub- 
stance which  does  not  quiver  nor  yield,  a fine  artist’s  line  is 
measurable  in  its  proposed  direction  to  considerably  less  than 
the  thousandth  of  an  inch. 

A wide  freedom,  truly  ! 

147.  The  conditions  of  popular  art  which  most  foster  the 
common  ideas  about  freedom,  are  merely  results  of  irregu- 
larly energetic  effort  by  men  imperfectly  educated  ; these  con- 
ditions being  variously  mingled  with  cruder  mannerisms 
resulting  from  timidity,  or  actual  imperfection  of  body. 
Northern  hands  and  eyes  are,  of  course,  never  so  subtle  as 


340  , , 


THE  QUEEN  OF  THE  AIR. 


Southern  ; and  in  very  cold  countries,  artistic  execution  ia 
palsied.  The  effort  to  break  through  this  timidity,  or  to  re- 
line  the  bluntness,  may  lead  to  a licentious  impetuosity,  or 
an  ostentatious  minuteness.  Every  man’s  manner  has  this 
kind  of  relation  to  some  defect  in  his  physical  powers  or 
modes  of  thought ; so  that  in  the  greatest  work  there  is  no 
manner  visible.  It  is  at  first  uninteresting  from  its  quiet- 
ness ; the  majesty  of  restrained  power  only  dawns  gradually 
upon  us,  as  we  walk  towards  its  horizon. 

There  is,  indeed,  often  great  delightfulness  in  the  innocent 
manners  of  artists  who  have  real  power  and  honesty,  and  draw, 
in  this  way  or  that,  as  best  they  can,  under  such  and  such  un- 
toward circumstances  of  life.  But  the  greater  part  of  the 
looseness,  flimsiness,  or  audacity  of  modem  work  is  the  ex- 
pression of  an  inner  spirit  of  licence  in  mind  and  heart,  con- 
nected, as  I said,  with  the  peculiar  folly  of  this  age,  its  hope 
of,  and  trust  in,  “ liberty.”  Of  which  wre  must  reason  a little 
in  more  general  terms. 

148.  I believe  we  can  nowhere  find  a better  type  of  a per- 
fectly free  creature  than  in  the  common  house  fly.  Nor  free 
only,  but  brave  ; and  irreverent  to  a degree  which  I think  no 
human  republican  could  by  any  philosophy  exalt  himself  to. 
There  is  no  courtesy  in  him  ; he  does  not  care  whether  it  is 
king  or  clown  whom  he  teases ; and  in  every  step  of  his 
swift  mechanical  march,  and  in  every  pause  of  his  resolute 
observation,  there  is  one  and  the  same  expression  of  perfect 
egotism,  perfect  independence  and  self-confidence,  and  con- 
viction of  the  world’s  having  been  made  for  flies.  Strike  at 
him  with  your  hand  ; and  to  him,  the  mechanical  fact  and  ex« 
ternai  aspect  of  the  matter  is,  what  to  you  it  would  be,  if  an 
acre  of  red  clay,  ten  feet  thick,  tore  itself  up  from  the  ground 
in  one  massive  field,  hovered  over  you  in  the  air  for  a second, 
and  came  crashing  down  with  an  aim.  That  is  the  external 
aspect  of  it  ; the  inner  aspect,  to  his  fly’s  mind,  is  of  a quite 
natural  and  unimportant  occurrence — one  of  the  momentary 
conditions  of  his  active  life.  He  steps  out  of  the  way  of  your 
hand,  and  alights  on  the  back  of  it.  You  cannot  terrify  him, 
nor  govern  him,  nor  persuade  him,  nor  convince  him.  Ha 


ATHENA  IN  THE  nEART. 


341 


has  his  own  positive  opinion  on  all  matters ; not  an  unwise 
one,  usually,  for  his  own  ends  ; and  will  ask  no  advice  of 
yours.  He  has  no  work  to  do — no  tyrannical  instinct  to 
obey.  The  earthworm  has  his  digging ; the  bee  her  gather- 
ing and  building  ; the  spider  her  cunning  net-work  ; the  ant 
her  treasury  and  accounts.  All  these  are  comparatively  slaves, 
or  people  of  vulgar  business.  But  your  fly,  free  in  the  air, 
free  in  the  chamber — a black  incarnation  of  caprice — wander- 
ing, investigating,  flitting,  flirting,  feasting  at  his  will,  with 
rich  variety  of  choice  in  feast,  from  the  heaped  sweets  in  the 
grocer’s  window  to  those  of  the  butcher’s  back-yard,  and  from 
the  galled  place  on  your  cab -horse’s  back,  to  the  brown 
spot  in  the  road,  from  which,  as  the  hoof  disturbs  him,  he 
rises  with  angry  republican  buzz  — what  freedom  is  like 
his  ? 

149.  For  captivity,  again,  perhaps  your  poor  watch-dog  is 
as  sorrowful  a type  as  you  will  easily  find.  Mine  certainty  is. 
The  day  is  lovely,  but  I must  write  this,  and  cannot  go  out 
with  him.  He  is  chained  in  the  yard,  because  I do  not  like 
dogs  in  rooms,  and  the  gardener  does  not  like  dogs  in 
gardens.  He  has  no  books, — nothing  but  his  own  weary 
thoughts  for  company,  and  a group  of  those  free  flies,  whom 
he  snaps  at,  with  sullen  ill  success.  Such  dim  hope  as  he 
may  have  that  I may  yet  take  him  out  with  me,  will  be,  hour 
by  hour,  wearily  disappointed  ; or,  worse,  darkened  at  once 
into  a leaden  despair  by  an  authoritative  “ No  ” — too  well 
understood.  His  fidelity  only  seals  his  fate  ; if  he  would  not 
watch  for  me,  he  would  be  sent  away,  and  go  hunting  with 
some  happier  master : but  he  watches,  and  is  wise,  and  faith- 
ful, and  miserable  : and  his  high  animal  intellect  only  gives 
him  the  wistful  powers  of  wonder,  and  sorrow7,  and  desire, 
and  affection,  wdiich  embitter  liis  captivity.  Yet  of  the  two, 
would  we  rather  be  watch-dog,  or  fly  ? 

150.  Indeed,  the  first  point  wre  have  all  to  determine  is  not 
how  free  we  are,  but  what  kind  of  creatures  we  are.  It  is  of 
small  importance  to  any  of  us  whether  we  get  liberty  ; but  of 
the  greatest  that  we  deserve  it.  Whether  we  can  win  it,  fate 
must  determine  ; but  that  we  will  be  worthy  of  it,  w'e  may 

8 


342 


THE  QUEEN  OF  THE  AIR. 


ourselves  determine  ; and  the  sorrowfullest  fate,  of  all  that  we 
can  suffer,  is  to  have  it,  without  deserving  it. 

151.  I have  hardly  patience  to  hold  my  pen  and  go  on  writ- 
ing, as  I remember  (I  would  that  it  were  possible  for  a few 
consecutive  instances  to  forget)  the  infinite  follies  of  modem 
thought  in  this  matter,  centred  in  the  notion  that  liberty  is 
good  for  a man,  irrespectively  of  the  use  he  is  likely  to  make 
of  it.  Folly  unfathomable  ! unspeakable  ! unendurable  to 
look  in  the  full  face  of,  as  the  laugh  of  a cretin.  You  will 
send  your  child,  will  you,  into  a room  where  the  table  is 
loaded  with  sweet  wine  and  fruit — some  poisoned,  some  not? 
— you  will  say  to  him,  “ Choose  freely,  my  little  child ! It  is 
so  good  for  you  to  have  freedom  of  choice  : it  forms  your 
character — your  individuality ! If  you  take  the  wrong  cup, 
or  the  wrong  berry,  you  will  die  before  the  day  is  over,  but 
you  will  have  acquired  the  dignity  of  a Free  child? ” 

152.  You  think  that  puts  the  case  too  sharply  ? I tell  you, 
lover  of  liberty,  there  is  no  choice  offered  to  you,  but  it  is 
similarly  between  life  and  death.  There  is  no  act,  nor  option 
of  act,  possible,  but  the  wrong  deed  or  option  has  poison  in 
it  which  will  stay  in  your  veins  thereafter  forever.  Never 
more  to  all  eternity  can  you  be  as  you  might  have  been,  had 
you  not  done  that — chosen  that.  You  have  “ formed  your 
character,”  forsooth  ! No  ; if  you  have  chosen  ill,  you  have 
De-formed  it,  and  that  forever ! In  some  choices,  it  had  been 
better  for  you  that  a red  hot  iron  bar  had  struck  you  aside, 
scarred  and  helpless,  than  that  you  had  so  chosen.  “ You 
will  know  better  next  time  ! ” No.  Next  time  will  never 
come.  Next  time  the  choice  will  be  in  quite  another  aspect 
— between  quite  different  things, — you,  weaker  than  you  were 
by  the  evil  into  which  you  have  fallen  ; it,  more  doubtful  than 
it  was,  by  the  increased  dimness  of  your  sight.  No  one  ever 
gets  wiser  by  doing  wrong,  nor  stronger.  You  will  get  wiser 
and  stronger  only  by  doing  right,  whether  forced  or  not ; the 
prime,  the  one  need  is  to  do  that , under  whatever ajompulsion, 
until  you  can  do  it  without  compulsion.  And  then  you  are  a 
Man. 

153.  14  What ! ” a wayward  youth  might  perhaps  answer,  in- 


ATHENA  IN  THE  HEART. 


343 


credulously  ; “no  one  ever  gets  wiser  by  doing  wrong?  Shall 
1 not  know  the  world  best  by  trying  the  wrong  of  it,  and  re- 
penting ? Have  I not,  even  as  it  is,  learned  much  by  many  of 
my  errors  ? ” Indeed,  the  effort  by  which  partially  you  recov- 
ered yourself  was  precious  ; that  part  of  your  thought  by 
which  you  discerned  the  error  was  precious.  What  wisdom 
and  strength  you  kept,  and  rightly  used,  are  rewarded  ; and 
in  the  pain  and  the  repentance,  and  in  the  acquaintance  with 
the  aspects  of  folly  and  sin,  you  have  learned  something ; 
how  much  less  than  you  would  have  learned  in  right  paths, 
can  never  be  told,  but  that  it  is  less  is  certain.  Your  liberty 
of  choice  has  simply  destroyed  for  you  so  much  life  and 
strength,  never  regainable.  It  is  true  you  now  know  the 
habits  of  swine,  and  the  taste  of  husks : do  you  think  your 
father  could  not  have  taught  you  to  know  better  habits  and 
pleasanter  tastes,  if  you  had  stayed  in  his  house  ; and  that  the 
knowledge  you  have  lost  would  not  have  been  more,  as  well 
as  sweeter,  than  that  you  have  gained?  But  “ it  so  forms  my 
individually  to  be  free  ! ” Your  individuality  was  given  you 
by  God,  and  in  your  race ; and  if  you  have  any  to  speak  of, 
you  will  want  no  liberty.  You  will  want  a den  to  work  in, 
and  peace,  and  light — no  more, — in  absolute  need  ; if  more, 
in  anywise,  it  will  still  not  be  liberty,  but  direction,  instruc- 
tion, reproof,  and  sympathy.  But  if  you  have  no  individual- 
ity, if  there  is  no  true  character  nor  true  desire  in  you,  then 
you  will  indeed  want  to  be  free.  You  will  begin  early  ; and, 
as  a boy,  desire  to  be  a man  ; and,  as  a man,  think  yourself  as 
good  as  every  other.  You  will  choose  freely  to  eat,  freely  to 
drink,  freely  to  stagger  and  fall,  freely,  at  last,  to  curse  your- 
self and  die.  Death  is  the  only  real  freedom  possible  to  us  : 
and  that  is  consummate  freedom, — permission  for  every  par- 
ticle in  the  rotting  body  to  leave  its  neighbour  particle,  and 
shift  for  itself.  You  call  it  “ corruption  ” in  the  flesh;  but 
before  it  comes  to  that,  all  liberty  is  an  equal  corruption  in 
mind.  You  ask  for  freedom  of  thought ; but  if  you  have  not 
sufficient  grounds  for  thought,  you  have  no  business  to  think  ; 
and  if  you  have  sufficient  grounds,  you  have  no  business  to 
think  wrong.  Only  one  thought  is  possible  to  you,  if  you  are 


344  THE  QUEEN  OF  THE  AIR. 

wise— your  liberty  is  geometrically  proportionate  to  you? 
folly. 

154.  “ But  all  this  glory  and  activity  of  our  age  ; what  are 
they  owing  to,  but  to  our  freedom  of  thought?”  In  a meas- 
ure, they  are  owing — what  good  is  in  them — to  the  discovery 
of  many  lies,  and  the  escape  from  the  powTer  of  evil.  Not  to 
liberty,  but  to  the  deliverance  from  evil  or  cruel  masters. 
Brave  men  have  dared  to  examine  lies  which  had  long  been 
taught,  not  because  they  were  free- thinkers,  but  because  they 
were  such  stem  and  close  thinkers  that  the  lie  could  no  lon- 
ger escape  them.  Of  course  the  restriction  of  thought,  or  of 
its  expression,  by  persecution,  is  merely  a form  of  violence, 
justifiable  or  not,  as  other  violence  is,  according  to  the  char- 
acter of  the  persons  against  whom  it  is  exercised,  and  the 
divine  and  eternal  laws  wLich  it  vindicates  or  violates.  We 
must  not  burn  a man  alive  for  saying  that  the  Athanasian 
creed  is  ungrammatical,  nor  stop  a bishop’s  salary  because  wre 
are  getting  the  worst  of  an  argument  with  him  ; neither  must 
we  let  drunken  men  howl  in  the  public  streets  at  night. 
There  is  much  that  is  true  in  the  part  of  Mr.  Mill’s  essay  on 
Liberty  which  treats  of  freedom  of  thought ; some  important 
truths  are  there  beautifully  expressed,  but  many,  quite  vital, 
are  omitted  ; and  the  balance,  therefore,  is  WTongly  struck. 
The  liberty  of  expression,  with  a great  nation,  wrould  become 
like  that  in  a wmil-edueated  company,  in  which  there  is  indeed 
freedom  of  speech,  but  not  of  clamour  ; . or  like  that  in  an  or- 
derly senate,  in  which  men  who  deserve  to  be  heard,  are  heard 
in  due  time,  and  under  determined  restrictions.  The  degree 
of  liberty  you  can  rightly  grant  to  a number  of  men  is  in  the 
inverse  ratio  of  their  desire  for  it ; and  a general  hush,  or  call 
to  order,  would  be  often  very  desirable  in  this  England  of 
ours.  For  the  rest,  of  any  good  or  evil  extant,  it  is  impossi- 
ble to  say  what  measure  is  owing  to  restraint,  and  what  to 
licence,  where  the  right  is  balanced  between  them.  I was  not 
a little  provoked  one  day,  a summer  or  two  since,  in  Scotland, 
because  the  Duke  of  Athol  hindered  me  from  examining  the 
gneiss  and  slate  junctions  in  Glen  Tilt,  at  the  hour  convenient 
to  me  ; but  I saw  them  at  last,  and  in  quietness ; and  to  the 


ATHENA  IN  THE  HEART. 


345 


very  restriction  that  annoyed  me,  owed,  probably,  the  fact  of 
their  being  in  existence,  instead  of  being  blasted  away  by  a 
mob-company  ; while  the  “ free  ” paths  and  inlets  of  Loch 
Katrine  and  the  Lake  of  Geneva  are  for  ever  trampled  down 
and  destroyed,  not  by  one  duke,  but  by  tens  of  thousands  of 
ignorant  tyrants, 

155.  So,  a Dean  and  Chapter  may,  perhaps,  unjustifiably 
charge  me  twopence  for  seeing  a cathedral ; — but  your  free 
mob  pulls  spire  and  all  down  about  my  ears,  and  I can  see  it 
no  more  for  ever.  And  even  if  I cannot  get  up  to  the  granite 
junctions  in  the  glen,  the  stream  comes  down  from  them  pure 
to  the  Garry  ; but  in  Beddington  Park  I am  stopped  by  the 
newly  erected  fence  of  a building  speculator  ; and  the  bright 
Wandel,  divine  of  waters  as  Castaly,  is  filled  by  the  free  pub- 
lic with  old  shoes,  obscene  crockery,  and  ashes. 

156.  In  fine,  the  arguments  for  liberty  may  in  general  be 
summed  in  a fewT  very  simple  forms,  as  follows  : — 

Misguiding  is  mischievous  : therefore  guiding  is. 

If  the  blind  lead  the  blind,  both  fall  into  the  ditch  : there- 
fore, nobody  should  lead  anybody. 

Lambs  and  fawns  should  be  left  free  in  the  fields  ; much 
more  bears  and  wolves. 

If  a man’s  gun  and  shot  are  his  own,  he  may  fire  in  any 
direction  he  pleases. 

A fence  across  a road  is  inconvenient ; much  more  one  at 
the  side  of  it. 

Babes  should  not  be  swraddled  with  their  hands  bound 
down  to  their  sides : therefore  they  should  be  thrown  out  to 
roll  in  the  kennels  naked. 

None  of  these  arguments  are  good,  and  the  practical  issues 
of  them  are  wrorse.  For  there  are  certain  eternal  laws  for 
human  conduct  which  are  quite  clearly  discernible  by  human 
reason.  So  far  as  these  are  discovered  and  obeyed,  by  what- 
ever machinery  or  authority  the  obedience  is  procured,  there 
follow  life  and  strength.  So  far  as  they  are  disobeyed,  by 
whatever  good  intention  the  disobedience  is  brought  about, 
there  follow  ruin  and  sorrow.  And  the  first  duty  of  every 
man  in  th»  world  is  to  find  his  true  master,  and,  for  his  own 


THE  QUEEN  OF  THE  AIR. 


good,  submit  to  him  ; and  to  find  his  true  inferior,  and,  foi 
that  inferior’s  good,  conquer  him.  The  punishment  is  sure, 
if  we  either  refuse  the  reverence,  or  are  too  cowardly  and  in- 
dolent to  enforce  the  compulsion.  A base  nation  crucifies  or 
poisons  its  wise  men,  and  lets  its  fools  rave  aud  rot  in  its 
streets.  A wise  nation  obeys  the  one,  restrains  the  other,  and 
cherishes  all. 

157.  The  best  examples  of  the  results  of  wise  normal  dis- 
cipline in  Art  will  be  found  in  whatever  evidence  remains 
respecting  the  lives  of  great  Italian  painters,  though,  unhap- 
pily, in  eras  of  progress,  but  just  in  proportion  to  the  admir- 
ableness and  efficiency  of  the  life,  will  be  usually  the  scanti- 
ness of  its  history.  The  individualities  and  liberties  which 
are  causes  of  destruction  may  be  recorded  ; but  the  loyal 
conditions  of  daily  breath  are  never  told.  Because  Leonardo 
made  models  of  machines,  dug  canals,  built  fortifications,  and 
dissipated  half  his  art-power  in  capricious  ingenuities,  we 
have  many  anecdotes  of  him  ; — but  no  picture  of  importance 
on  canvas,  and  only  a few  withered  stains  of  one  upon  a wall. 
But  because  his  pupil,  or  reputed  pupil,  Luini,  laboured  in 
constant  and  successful  simplicity,  we  have  no  anecdotes  of 
him  ; — only  hundreds  of  noble  works.  Luini  is,  perhaps,  the 
best  central  type  of  the  highly-trained  Italian  painter.  He  is 
the  only  man  who  entirely  united  the  religious  temper  which 
was  the  spirit-life  of  art,  with  the  physical  power  which  was  its 
bodily  life.  He  joins  the  purity  and  passion  of  Angelico  to  the 
strength  of  Veronese  : the  two  elements,  poised  in  perfect  bal- 
ance, are  so  calmed  and  restrained,  each  by  the  other,  that 
most  of  us  lose  the  sense  of  both.  The  artist  does  not  see  the 
strength,  by  reason  of  the  chastened  spirit  in  which  it  is  used ; 
and  the  religious  visionary  does  not  recognize  the  passion,  bj 
reason  of  the  frank  human  truth  with  which  it  is  rendered. 
He  is  a man  ten  times  greater  than  Leonardo a mighty  col- 
ourist, while  Leonardo  was  only  a fine  draughtsman  in  black, 
staining  the  chiaroscuro  drawing,  like  a coloured  print : he 
perceived  and  rendered  the  delicatest  types  of  human  beauty 
that  have  been  painted  since  the  da}'S  of  the  Greeks,  while 
Leonardo  depraved  his  finer  instincts  by  caricature,  and  re- 


ATHENA  IN  THE  HEART. 


34-7 


mained  to  tlie  end  of  liis  days  the  slave  of  an  archaic  smile  : 
and  he  is  a designer  as  frank,  instinctive,  and  exhaustless  as 
Tintoret,  while  Leonardo’s  design  is  only  an  agony  of  science, 
admired  chiefly  because  it  is  painful,  and  capable  of  analysis 
in  its  best  accomplishment.  Luini  has  left  nothing  behind 
him  that  is  not  lovely  ; but  of  his  life  I believe  hardly  any- 
thing  is  known  beyond  remnants  of  tradition  which  murmur 
about  Lugano  and  Saronno,  and  which  remain  ungleaned. 
This  only  is  certain,  that  he  was  born  in  the  loveliest  dis- 
trict of  North  Italy,  where  hills,  and  streams,  and  air,  meet  in 
softest  harmonies.  Child  of  the  Alps,  and  of  their  divinest 
Like,  he  is  taught,  without  doubt  or  dismay,  a lofty  religious 
creed,  and  a sufficient  law  of  life,  and  of  its  mechanical  arts. 
Whether  lessoned  by  Leonardo  himself,  or  merely  one  of 
many,  disciplined  in  the  system  of  the  Milanese  school,  he 
learns  unerringly  to  draw,  unerringly  and  enduring!}7  to  paint. 
His  tasks  are  set  him  without  question  day  by  day,  by  men 
who  are  justly  satisfied  with  his  work,  and  who  accept  it  with- 
out any  harmful  praise,  or  senseless  blame.  Place,  scale,  and 
subject  are  determined  for  him  on  the  cloister  wall  or  the 
church  dome  ; 'as  he  is  required,  and  for  sufficient  daily 
bread,  and  little  more,  he  paints  what  he  has  been  taught  to 
design  wisely,  and  has  passion  to  realize  gloriously  : every 
touch  he  lays  is  eternal,  every  thought  he  conceives  is  beauti- 
ful and  pure  : his  hand  moves  always  in  radiance  of  blessing  ; 
from  day  to  day  his  life  enlarges  in  power  and  peace  ; it 
passes  away  cloudlessly,  the  starry  twilight  remaining  arched 
far  against  the  night. 

158.  Oppose  to  such  a life  as  this  that  of  a great  painter 
amidst  the  elements  of  modern  English  liberty.  Take  the  life 
of  Turner,  in  whom  the  artistic  energy  and  inherent  love  of 
beauty  were  at  least  as  strong  as  in  Luini  : but,  amidst  the 
disorder  and  ghastliness  of  the  lower  streets  of  London,  his 
instincts  in  early  infancy  were  warped  into  toleration  of  evil, 
or  even  into  delight  in  it.  He  gathers  what  he  can  of  instruc- 
tion by  questioning  and  prying  among  half-informed  masters  ; 
spells  out  some  knowledge  of  classical  fable  ; educates  him- 
self, by  an  admirable  force,  to  the  production  of  wildly  ma- 


848 


THE  QUEEN  OF  THE  AIR. 


jestic  or  pathetically  tender  and  pure  pictures,  by  which  ha 
cannot  live.  There  is  no  one  to  judge  them,  or  to  command 
him  : only  some  of  the  English  upper  classes  hire  him  to  paint 
their  houses  and  parks,  and  destroy  the  drawings  afterwards 
by  the  most  wanton  neglect.  Tired  of  labouring  carefully, 
without  either  reward  or  praise,  he  dashes  out  into  various 
experimental  and  popular  works — makes  himself  the  servant 
of  the  lower  public,  and  is  dragged  hither  and  thither  at  their 
will ; while  yet,  helpless  and  guideless,  he  indulges  his  idiosyn- 
crasies till  they  change  into  insanities ; the  strength  of  his 
soul  increasing  its  sufferings,  and  giving  force  to  its  errors  ; 
all  the  purpose  of  life  degenerating  into  instinct ; and  the  web 
of  his  work  wrought,  at  last,  of  beauties  too  subtle  to  be  un- 
derstood, his  liberty,  with  vices  too  singular  to  be  forgiven — all 
useless,  because  magnificent  idiosyncrasy  had  become  solitude, 
or  contention,  in  the  midst  of  a reckless  populace,  instead  of 
submitting  itself  in  loyal  harmony  to  the  Aid-laws  of  an  urn 
derstanding  nation.  And  the  life  passed  away  in  darkness 
and  its  final  work,  in  all  the  best  beauty  of  it,  has  already 
perished,  only  enough  remaining  to  teach  us  what  wre  have 
lost. 

159.  These  are  the  opposite  effects  of  Law  and  of  Liberty 
on  men  of  the  highest  powers.  In  the  case  of  inferiors  the 
contrast  is  still  more  fatal : under  strict  law,  they  become  the 
subordinate  workers  in  great  schools,  healthily  aiding,  echoing, 
or  supplying,  with  multitudinous  force  of  hand,  the  mind  of 
the  leading  masters : they  are  the  nameless  carvers  of  great 
architecture — stainers  of  glass — hammerers  of  iron — helpful 
scholars,  whose  work  ranks  round,  if  not  with,  their  master’s 
and  never  disgraces  it.  But  the  inferiors  under  a system  of 
licence  for  the  most  part  perish  in  miserable  effort ; * a few 

* As  I correct  this  sheet  for  press,  my  Pall  Mall  Gazette  of  last  Satur- 
day, April  17tli,  is  lying  on  the  table  by  me.  I print  a few  lines  out  of 
it: — 

“An  Artist’s  Death. — Asad  story  was  told  at  an  inquest  held  in 
St.  Pancras  last  night  by  Dr.  Lankester  on  the  body  of  * * *,  aged  fifty- 
nine,  a French  artist,  who  was  found  dead  in  his  bed  at  his  rooms  in 
* * * Street.  M.  * * *,  also  an  artist,  said  he  had  known  the  de- 

ceased for  fifteen  years-  He  once  held  a high  position,  and  being  anx 


ATHENA  IN  THE  HEART. 


849 


struggle  into  pernicious  eminence— harmful  alike  to  themselves 
and  to  all  who  admire  them  ; many  die  of  starvation  ; many 
insane,  either  in  weakness  of  insolent  egotism,  like  Haydon, 
or  in  a conscientious  agony  of  beautiful  purpose  and  warped 
power,  like  Blake.  There  is  no  probability  of  the  persistence 
of  a licentious  school  in  any  good  accidentally  discovered  by 
them  ; there  is  an  approximate  certainty  of  their  gathering 
with  acclaim,  round  any  shadow  of  evil,  and  following  it  to 
whatever  quarter  of  destruction  it  may  lead. 

160.  Thus  far  the  notes  on  Freedom.  Now,  lastly,  here  is 
some  talk  which  I tried  at  the  time  to  make  intelligible  ; and 
with  which  I close  this  volume,  because  it  will  serve  suffi- 
ciently to  express  the  practical  relation  in  which  I think  the 
art  and  imagination  of  the  Greeks  stand  to  our  own  ; and  will 
show  the  reader  that  my  view"  of  that  relation  is  unchanged, 
from  the  first  day  on  which  I began  to  write,  until  now. 

jo  us  to  make  a name  in  the  world,  he  five  years  ago  commenced  a large 
picture,  which  he  hoped,  when  completed,  to  have  in  the  gallery  at 
Versailles  ; and  with  that  view  lie  sent  a photograph  of  it  to  the  French 
Emperor.  He  also  had  an  idea  of  sending  it  to  the  English  Royal  Acad- 
emy. He  laboured  on  this  picture,  neglecting  other,  work  which  would 
have  paid  him  well,  and  gradually  sank  lower  and  lower  into  poverty. 
His  friends  assisted  him,  but  being  absorbed  in  his  great  work,  he  did 
not  heed  their  advice,  and  they  left  him.  He  was,  however,  assisted 
by  the  French  Ambassador,  and  last  Saturday  he  vthe  witness)  saw  de- 
ceased, who  was  much  depressed  in  spirits,  as  he  expected  the  brokers 
-to  be  put  in  possession  for  rent.  He  said  his  troubles  were  so  great  that 
he  feared  his  brain  would  give  way.  The  witness  gave  him  a shilling, 
for  which  lie  appeared  very  thankful.  On  Monday  the  witness  called 
upon  him,  but  received  no  answer  to  his  knock.  He  went  again  on 
Tuesday,  and  entered  the  deceased’s  bedroom  and  found  him  dead. 
Dr.  George  Ross  said,  that  when  called  in  to  the  deceased  he  had  been 
dead  at  least  two  days  The  room  was  in  a filthy  dirty  condition,  and  the 
picture  referred  to— certainly  a very  fine  one — was  in  that  room.  The 
post-mortem  examination  shewed  that  the  cause  of  death  was  fatty  de- 
generation of  the  heart,  the  latter  probably  having  ceased  its  action 
through  th®  mental  excitement  of  the  deceased.” 


o5Q 


THE  QUEEN  OF  THE  AIR. 


The  Hercules  of  Camarina. 

Address  to  the  Students  of  the  Art  School  of  South  Lambeth,  March 

1869. 

161.  Among  the  photographs  of  Greek  coins  which  present  so 
many  admirable  subjects  for  your  study,  I must  speak  for  the 
present  of  one  only : the  Hercules  of  Camarina.  You  have, 
represented  by  a Greek  workman,  in  that  coin,  the  face  of  a 
man,  and  the  skin  of  a lion’s  head.  And  the  man’s  face  is  like 
a man’s  face,  but  the  lion’s  skin  is  not  like  a lion’s  skin. 

162.  Now  there  are  some  people  who  will  tell  you  that 
Greek  art  is  fine,  because  it  is  true  ; and  because  it  carves 
men's  faces  as  like  men’s  faces  as  it  can. 

And  there  are  other  people  who  will  tell  you  that  Greek 
art  is  fine  because  it  is  not  true  ; and  carves  a lion’s  skin  so 
as  to  look  not  at  all  like  a lion’s  skin. 

And  you  fancy  that  one  or  other  of  these  sets  of  people 
must  be  wrong,  and  are  perhaps  much  puzzled  to  find  out 
which  you  should  believe. 

But  neither  of  them  are  wrong,  and  you  wall  have  eventu- 
ally  to  believe,  or  rather  to  understand  and  know,  in  recon- 
ciliation, the  truths  taught  by  each ; — but  for  the  present,  the 
teachers  of  the  first  group  are  those  you  must  follow7. 

It  is  they  who  tell  you  the  deepest  and  usefullest  truth, 
which  involves  all  others  in  time.  Greek  art , and  all  other  art , 

is  fine  when  it  makes  a mans  face  as  like  a mans  face  as  it  can . 
Hold  to  that.  All  kinds  of  nonsense  are  talked  to  you,  now- 
a-days,  ingeniously  and  irrelevantly  about  art.  Therefore,  for 
the  most  part  of  the  day,  shut  your  ears,  and  keep  your  eyes 
open  : and  understand  primarily,  what  you  may,  I fancy,  un- 
derstand easily,  that  the  greatest  masters  of  all  greatest  schools 
—Phidias,  Donatello,  Titian,  Velasquez,  or  Sir  Joshua  Bey- 
nolds — all  tried  to  make  human  creatures  as  like  human  creat- 
ures as  they  could  ; and  that  anything  less  like  humanity  than 
their  work,  is  not  so  good  as  theirs. 


ATHENA  IN  THE  HEART. 


351 


Get  that  well  driven  into  your  heads  ; and  don’t  let  it  out 
again,  at  your  peril. 

163.  Having  ^got  it  well  in,  you  may  then  farther  under- 
stand,  safely,  that  there  is  a great  deal  of  secondary  work  in 
pots,  and  pans,  and. floors,  and  carpets,  and  shawls,  and  archi- 
tectural ornament,  which  ought,  essentially,  to  be  unlike  real- 
ity, and  to  depend  for  its  charm  on  quite  other  qualities  than 
imitative  ones.  But  all  such  art  is  inferior  and  secondary — 
much  of  it  more  or  less  instinctive  and  animal,  and  a civilized 
human  creature  can  only  learn  its  principles  rightly,  by  knov* 
ing  those  of  great  civilized  art  first — which  is  always  the  rep- 
resentation, to  the  utmost  of  its  power,  of  whatever  it  has  got 
to  show — made  to  look  as  like  the  thing  as  possible.  Go 
into  the  National  Gallery,  and  look  at  the  foot  of  Correggio’s 
Venus  there.  Correggio  made  it  as  like  a foot  as  he  could, 
and  you  won’t  easily  find  anything  liker.  Now,  you  will  find 
on  any  Greek  vase  something  meant  for  a foot,  or  a hand, 
which  is  not  at  all  like  one.  The  Greek  vase  is  a good  thing 
in  its  way,  but  Correggio’s  picture  is  the  best  work. 

164.  So,  again,  go  into  the  Turner  room  of  the  National 
Gallery,  and  look  at  Turner’s  drawing  of  “ Ivy  Bridge.”  You 
will  find  the  water  in  it  is  like  real  water,  and  the  ducks  in  it 
are  like  real  ducks.  Then  go  into  the  British  Museum,  and 
look  for  an  Egyptian  landscape,  and  you  will  find  the  water 
in  that  constituted  of  blue  zigzags,  not  at  all  like  water ; and 
ducks  in  the  middle  of  it  made  of  red  lines,  looking  not  in 
the  least  as  if  they  could  stand  stuffing  with  sage  and  onions. 
They  are  very  good  in  their  way,  but  Turner’s  are  better. 

165.  I will  not  pause  to  fence  my  general  principle  against 
what  you  perfectly  well  know  of  the  due  contradiction, — 
that  a thing  may  be  painted  very  like,  yet  painted  ill.  Best 
content  with  knowing  that  it  must  be  like,  if  it  is  painted 
well ; and  take  this  farther  general  law  : — Imitation  is  like 
charity.  When  it  is  done  for  love  it  is  lovely  ; when  it  is 
done  for  show,  hateful. 

166.  Well,  then,  this  Greek  coin  is  fine,  first,  because  the 
face  is  like  a face.  Perhaps  you  think  there  is  something 
particularly  handsome  in  the  face,  which  you  can’t  see  in  the 


352  THE  QUEEN  OF  THE  AIR 

photograph,  or  can’t  at  present  appreciate.  But  there  is 
nothing  of  the  hind.  It  is  a very  regular,  quiet,  commonplace 
sort  of  face  ; and  any  average  English  gentleman’s,  of  good 
descent,  would  be  far  handsomer. 

167.  Fix  that  in  your  heads  also,  therefore,  that  Greek 
faces  are  not  particularly  beautiful.  Of  the  much  nonsense 
against  which  you  are  to  keep  your  ears  shut,  that  which  is 
talked  to  you  of  the  Greek  ideal  of  beauty,  is  among  the  abso- 
lutest,  There  is  not  a single  instance  of  a very  beautiful  head 
left  by  the  highest  school  of  Greek  art.  On  coins,  there  is 
even  no  approximately  beautiful  one.  The  Juno  of  Argos  is  a 
virago  ; the  Athena  of  Athens,  grotesque;  the  Athena  of  Cor- 
inth is  insipid  ; and  of  Tburium,  sensual.  The  Siren  Ligeia, 
and  fountain  of  Arethusa,  on  the  coins  of  Terina  and  Syra- 
cuse, are  prettier,  but  totally  without  expression,  and  chiefly 
set  off  by  their  well-curled  hair.  You  might  have  expected 
something  subtle  in  Mercuries  ; but  the  Mercury  of  iEnus  is 
a very  stupid-looking  fellow,  in  a cap  like  a bowl,  with  a knob 
on  the  top  of  it.  The  Bacchus  of  Thasos  is  a drayman  with 
his  hair  pomatum’d.  The  Jupiter  of  Syracuse  is,  however, 
calm  and  refined ; and  the  Apollo  of  Clazomenm  would  have 
been  impressive,  if  he  had  not  come  down  to  us  much  flat- 
tened by  friction.  But  on  the  whole,  the  merit  of  Greek 
coins  does  not  primarily  depend  on  beauty  of  features,  nor 
even,  in  the  period  of  highest  art,  that  of  the  statues.  You 
may  take  the  Yenus  of  Melos  as  a standard  of  beauty  of  tbe 
central  Greek  type.  She  has  tranquil,  regular,  and  lofty 
features  ; but  could  not  hold  her  own  for  a moment  against 
the  beauty  of  a simple  English  girl,  of  pure  race  and  kind 
heart. 

168.  And  the  reason  that  Greek  art,  on  the  -whole,  bores 
you,  (and  you  know  it  does,)  is  that  you  are  always  forced  to 
look  in  it  for  something  that  is  not  there  ; but  which  may  be 
seen  every  day,  in  real  life,  all  round  you  ; and  which  you  are 
naturally  disposed  to  delight  in,  and  ought  to  delight  in.  For 
the  Greek  race  was  not  at  all  one  of  exalted  beauty,  but  only 
of  general  and  healthy  completeness  of  form.  They  were 
only,  and  could  be  only,  beautiful  in  body  to  the  degree  that 


ATHENA  IN  THE  HEART. 


353 


they  were  beautiful  in  soul  (for  you  will  find,  when  you  read 
deeply  into  the  matter,  that  the  body  is  only  the  soul  made 
visible).  And  the  Greeks  were  indeed  very  good  people,  much 
better  people  than  most  of  us  think,  or  than  many  of  us  are  ; 
but  there  are  better  people  alive  now  than  the  best  of  them, 
and  lovelier  people  to  be  seen  now  than  the  loveliest  of  them 

169.  Then,  what  are  the  merits  of  this  Greek  art,  which 
make  it  so  exemplary  for  you  ? Well,  not  that  it  is  beautiful, 
but  that  it  is  Right.*  All  that  it  desires  to  do,  it  does,  and  all 
that  it  does,  does  well.  You  will  find,  as  you  advance  in  the 
knowledge  of  art,  that  its  laws  of  self-restraint  are  very  marvel- 
lous ; that  its  peace  of  heart,  and  contentment  in  doing  a sim- 
ple thing,  with  only  one  or  two  qualities,  restrictedly  desired, 
and  sufficiently  attained,  are  a most  wholesome  element  of 
education  for  you,  as  opposed  to  the  wild  writhing,  and  wrest- 
ling, and  longing  for  the  moon,  and  tilting  at  wind-mills,  and 
agony  of  eyes,  and  torturing  of  fingers,  and  general  spinning 
out  of  one’s  soul  into  fiddlestrings,  which  constitute  the  ideal 
life  of  a modern  artist. 

Also  observe,  there  is  entire  masterhood  of  its  business  up 
to  the  required  point.  A Greek  does  not  reach  after  other 
people’s  strength,  nor  out-reach  his  own.  He  never  tries 
to  paint  before  he  can  draw  ; he  never  tries  to  lay  on  flesh 
where  there  are  no  bones  ; and  he  never  expects  to  find  the 
bones  of  anything  in  his  inner  consciousness.  Those  are  his 
first  merits — sincere  and  innocent  purpose,  strong  common 
sense  and  principle,  and  all  the  strength  that  comes  of  these, 
and  all  the  grace  that  follows  on  that  strength. 

170.  But,  secondly,  Greek  art  is  always  exemplary  in  dis- 
position of  masses,  which  is  a thing  that  in  modern  days  stu- 
dents rarely  look  for,  artists  not  enough,  and  the  public  never. 
But,  whatever  else  Greek  work  may  fail  of,  you  may  be  always 
sure  its  masses  are  well  placed,  and  their  placing  has  been 
the  object  of  the  most  subtle  care.  Look,  for  instance,  at  the 
inscription  in  front  of  this  Hercules  of  the  name  of  the 
town— Camarina.  You  can’t  read  it,  even  though  you  may 
know  Greek,  without  some  pains  ; for  the  sculptor  knew  well 

* Compare  above,  § 101. 


8 54 


THE  QUEEN  OF  THE  AIR. 


enough  that  it  mattered  very  little  whether  you  read  it  ol 
not,  for  the  Camarina  Hercules  could  tell  his  own  story ; but 
what  did  above  all  things  matter  was,  that  no  K or  A or  M 
should  come  in  a wrong  place  with  respect  to  the  outline  of 
the  head,  and  divert  the  eye  from  it,  or  spoil  any  of  its  lines. 
So  the  whole  inscription  is  thrown  into  a sweeping  curve  of 
gradually  diminishing  size,  continuing  from  the  lion’s  paws, 
round  the  neck,  up  to  the  forehead,  and  answering  a decora- 
tive purpose  as  completely  as  the  curls  of  the  mane  opposite. 
Of  these,  again,  you  cannot  change  or  displace  one  without 
mischief : they  are  almost  as  even  in  reticulation  as  a piece 
of  basket-work  ; but  each  has  a different  form  and  a due  re- 
lation to  the  rest,  and  if  you  set  to  work  to  draw  that  mane 
rightly,  you  will  find  that,  whatever  time  you  give  to  it,  you 
can’t  get  the  tresses  quite  into  their  places,  and  that  every 
tress  out  of  its  place  does  an  injury.  If  you  want  to  test 
your  powers  of  accurate  drawing,  you  may  make  that  lion’s 
mane  your  pons  asinorum.  I have  never  yet  met  with  a stu- 
dent who  didn’t  make  an  ass  in  a lion’s  skin  of  himself,  when 
he  tried  it. 

171.  Granted,  however,  that  these  tresses  may  be  finely 
placed,  still  they  are  not  like  a lion’s  mane.  Bo  w7e  come 
back  to  the  question, — if  the  face  is  to  be  like  a man’s  face, 
why  is  not  the  lion’s  mane  to  be  like  a lion’s  mane?  Well, 
because  it  can’t  be  like  a lion’s  mane  without  too  much 
trouble ; — and  inconvenience  after  that,  and  poor  success,  after 
all.  Too  much  trouble,  in  cutting  the  die  into  fine  fringes 
and  jags  ; inconvenience  after  that, — because  fringes  and 
jags  would  spoil  the  surface  of  a coin  ; poor  success  after  all, 
— because,  though  you  can  easily  stamp  cheeks  and  foreheads 
smooth  at  a blow,  you  can’t  stamp  projecting  tresses  fine  at  a 
blow,  whatever  pains  you  take  with  your  die. 

So  your  Greek  uses  his  common  sense,  wastes  no  time, 
loses  no  skill,  and  says  to  you,  “ Here  are  beautifully  set 
tresses,  which  I have  carefully  designed  and  easily^ stamped. 
Enjoy  them  ; and  if  you  cannot  understand  that  they  mean 
lion’s  mane,  heaven  mend  your  wits.” 

172.  See  then,  you  have  in  this  work,  well-founded  knowl- 


ATHENA  IN  THE  HEART. 


355 


edge,  simple  and  right  aims,  thorough  mastery  of  handicraft, 
splended  invention  in  arrangement,  unerring  common  sense 
in  treatment, — merits,  these,  I think,  exemplary  enough  to 
justify  our  tormenting  you  a little  with  Greek  Art.  But 
it  has  one  merit  more  than  these,  the  greatest  of  all.  It 
always  means  something  worth  saying.  Not  merely  worth 
saying  for  that  time  only,  but  for  all  time.  What  do  you 
think  this  helmet  of  lion’s  hide  is  always  given  to  Hercules 
for  ? You  can’t  suppose  it  means  only  that  he  once  killed  a 
lion,  and  always  carried  the  skin  afterwards  to  show  that  he 
had.  as  Indian  sportsmen  send  home  stuffed  rugs,  with  claws 
at  the  corners,  and  a lump  in  the  middle  which  one  tumbles 
over  every  time  one  stirs  the  fire.  What  was  this  Nemean 
Lion,  whose  spoils  were  evermore  to  cover  Hercules  from  the 
cold?  Not  merely  a large  specimen  of  Felis  Leo,  ranging  the 
fields  of  Nemea,  be  sure  of  that.  This  Nemean  cub  was  one 
of  a bad  litter.  Born  of  Typhon  and  Echidna, —of  the  whirl- 
wind and  the  snake, — Cerberus  his  brother,  the  Hydra  of 
Lerna  his  sister,—  it  must  have  been  difficult  to  get  his  hide 
off  him.  He  had  to  be  found  in  darkness  too,  and  dealt  upon 
without  weapons,  by  grip  at  the  throat — arrows  and  club  of 
no  avail  against  him.  What  does  all  that  mean  ? 

173.  It  means  that  the  Nemean  Lion  is  the  first  great  ad- 
versary of  life,  whatever  that  may  be — to  Hercules,  or  to  any 
of  us,  then  or  now.  The  first  monster  we  have  to  strangle,  or 
be  destroyed  by,  fighting  in  the  dark,  and  with  none  to  help 
us,  only  Athena  standing  by  to  encourage  with  her  smile. 
Every  man’s  Nemean  Lion  lies  in  wait  for  him  somewhere. 
The  slothful  man  says,  there  is  a lion  in  the  path.  He  says 
well.  The  quiet  un slothful  man  says  the  same,  and  knows  it 
too.  But  they  differ  in  their  farther  reading  of  the  text.  The 
slothful  man  says  I shall  be  slain,  and  the  unslothful,  it  shall 
be.  It  is  the  first  ugly  and  strong  enemy  that  rises  against 
us,  all  future  victory  depending  on  victory  over  that.  Kill  it ; 
and  through  all  the  rest  of  life,  what  was  once  dreadful  is 
your  armour  and  you  are  clothed  with  that  conquest  for  every 
other,  and  helmed  with  its  crest  of  fortitude  for  evermore. 

Alas,  we  have  most  of  us  to  walk  bare-headed  ; but  that  is 


356  THE  QUEEN  OF  THE  AIR 

the  meaning  of  the  story  of  Nemea, — worth  laying  to  heart 
and  thinking  of,  sometimes,  when  you  see  a dish  garnished 
with  parsley,  which  was  the  crown  at  the  Nemean  games. 

174.  How  far,  then,  have  we  got,  in  our  list  of  the  merits 
of  Greek  art  now  ? 

Sound  knowledge. 

Simple  aims. 

Mastered  craft. 

Vivid  invention. 

Strong  common  sense. 

And  eternally  true  and  wise  meaning. 

Are  these  not  enough  ? Here  is  one  more  then,  which  will 
find  favour,  I should  think,  with  the  British  Lion.  Greek 
art  is  never  frightened  at  anything,  it  is  always  cool. 

175.  It  differs  essentially  from  all  other  art,  past  or  pres- 
ent, in  this  incapability  of  being  frightened.  Half  the  power 
and  imagination  of  every  other  school  depend  on  a certain 
feverish  terror  mingling  with  their  sense  of  beauty ; — the 
feeling  that  a child  has  in  a dark  room,  or  a sick  person  in 
seeing  ugly  dreams.  But  the  Greeks  never  have  ugly  dreams. 
They  cannot  draw  anything  ugly  when  they  try.  Sometimes 
they  put  themselves  to  their  wits’-end  to  draw  an  ugly  thing, 
- — the  Medusa’s  head,  for  instance, — but  they  can’t  do  it, — 
not  they, — because  nothing  frightens  them.  They  widen  the 
mouth,  and  grind  the  teeth,  and  puff  the  cheeks,  and  set  the 
eyes  a-goggling ; and  the  thing  is  only  ridiculous  after  all, 
not  the  least  dreadful,  for  there  is  no  dread  in  their  hearts. 
Pensiveness  ; amazement ; often  deepest  grief  and  desolate- 
ness. All  these  ; but  terror  never.  Everlasting  calm  in  the 
presence  of  all  fate  ; and  joy  such  as  they  could  win,  not  in- 
deed in  a perfect  beauty,  but  beauty  at  perfect  rest ! A kind 
of  art  this,  surely,  to  be  looked  at,  and  thought  upon  some- 
times with  profit,  even  in  these  latter  days. 

176.  To  be  looked  at  sometimes.  Not  continually,  and 
never  as  a model  for  imitation.  For  you  are  not  Greeks  ; but, 
for  better  or  worse,  English  creatures ; and  cannot  do,  even 
if  it  were  a thousand  times  better  worth  doing,  anything  well, 
except  what  your  English  hearts  shall  prompt,  and  your  Eng- 


ATHENA  IN  THE  HEART. 


o x 
OO  i 

lish  skies  teach  you.  For  all  good  art  is  the  natural  utten 
ance  of  its  own  people  in  its  own  day. 

But  also,  your  own  art  is  a better  and  brighter  one  than 
ever  this  Greek  art  was.  Many  motives,  powers,  and  insights 
have  been  added  to  those  elder  ones.  The  very  corruptions 
into  which  we  have  fallen  are  signs  of  a subtle  life,  higher 
than  theirs  was,  and  therefore  more  fearful  in  its  faults  and 
death.  Christianity  has  neither  superseded,  nor,  by  itself, 
excelled  heathenism  ; but  it  has  added  its  own  good,  won  also 
by  many  a Nemean  contest  in  dark  valleys,  to  all  that  was 
good  and  noble  in  heathenism : and  our  present  thoughts 
and  work,  when  they  are  right,  are  nobler  than  the  heathen’s. 
And  we  are  not  reverent  enough  to  them,  because  we  possess 
too  much  of  them.  That  sketch  of  four  cherub  heads  from 
an  English  girl,  by  Sir  Joshua  Reynolds,  at  Kensington,  is  an 
incomparably  finer  thing  than  ever  the  Greeks  did.  Ineffably 
tender  in  the  touch,  yet  Herculean  in  power ; innocent,  yet 
exalted  in  feeling  ; pure  in  colour  as  a pearl  ; reserved  and 
decisive  in  design,  as  this  Lion  crest, — if  it  alone  existed  of 
such, — if  it  were  a picture  by  Zeuxis,  the  only  one  left  in  the 
world,  and  you  built  a shrine  for  it,  and  were  allowed  to  see 
it  only  seven  days  in  a year,  it  alone  would  teach  you  all  of  art 
that  you  ever  needed  to  know.  But  you  do  not  learn  from 
this  or  any  other  such  work,  because  you  have  not  reverence 
enough  for  them,  and  are  trying  to  learn  from  all  at  once, 
and  from  a hundred  other  masters  besides. 

177.  Here,  then,  is  the  practical  advice  which  I would  vem 
ture  to  deduce  from  what  I have  tried  to  show  you.  Use 
Greek  art  as  a first,  not  a final,  teacher.  Learn  to  draw  care- 
fully from  Greek  work  ; above  all,  to  place  forms  correctly, 
and  to  use  light  and  shade  tenderly.  Never  allow  yourselves 
black  shadows.  It  is  easy  to  make  things  look  round  and 
projecting  ; but  the  things  to  exercise  yourselves  in  are  the 
placing  of  the  masses,  and  the  modelling  of  the  lights.  It  is 
an  admirable  exercise  to  take  a pale  wash  of  colour  for  all  the 
shadows,  never  reinforcing  it  everywhere,  but  drawing  the 
statue  as  if  it  were  in  far  distance,  making  all  the  darks  one 
flat  pale  tint.  Then  model  from  those  into  the  fights,  round- 
9 


358 


THE  QUEEN  OF  THE  AIR. 


ing  as  well  as  you  can,  on  those  subtle  conditions.  In  your 
chalk  drawings,  separate  the  lights  from  the  darks  at  once  all 
over  ; then  reinforce  the  darks  slightly  where  absolutely  nec- 
essary, and  put  your  whole  strength  on  the  lights  and  their 
limits.  Then,  when  you  have  learned  to  draw  thoroughly, 
take  one  master  for  your  painting,  as  you  would  have  done 
necessarily  in  old  times  by  being  put  into  his  school  (were  I 
to  choose  for  you,  it  should  be  among  six  men  only — Titian, 
Correggio,  Paul  Veronese,  Velasquez,  Reynolds,  or  Holbein). 
If  you  are  a landscapist,  Turner  must  be  your  only  guide,  (for 
no  other  great  landscape  painter  has  yet  lived) ; and  having 
chosen,  do  your  best  to  understand  your  own  chosen  master, 
and  obey  him,  and  no  one  else,  till  you  have  strength  to  deal 
with  the  nature  itself  round  you,  and  then,  be  your  own  mas- 
ter, and  see  with  your  own  eyes.  If  you  have  got  masterhood 
or  sight  in  you,  that  is  the  way  to  make  the  most  of  them  ; 
aud  if  you  have  neither,  you  will  at  least  be  sound  in  your 
work,  prevented  from  immodest  and  useless  effort,  and  pro- 
tected from  vulgar  and  fantastic  error. 

And  so  I wish  you  all,  good  speed,  and  the  favour  of  Her- 
cules and  of  the  Muses  ; and  to  those  who  shall  best  deserve 
them,  the  crown  of  Parsley  first  and  then  of  the  Laurel. 


THE  END. 


THE  STORM  CLOUD  OF  THE 
NINETEENTH  CENTURY 

TWO  LECTURES 


DELIVERED  AT  THE  LONDON  INSTITUTION^ 
FEBRUARY  4th  AND  nth,  1884. 


PEEFACE. 


The  following  lectures,  drawn  up  under  the  pressure  of 
more  imperative  and  quite  otherwise  directed  work,  contain 
many  passages  which  stand  in  need  of  support,  and  some,  I 
do  not  doubt,  more  or  less  of  correction,  which  I always  pre- 
fer to  receive  openly  from  the  better  knowledge  of  friends, 
after  setting  down  my  own  impressions  of  the  matter  in  clear- 
ness as  far  as  they  reach,  than  to  guard  myself  against  by 
submitting  my  manuscript,  before  publication,  to  annotators 
whose  stricture  or  suggestion  I might  often  feel  pain  in  re- 
fusing, yet  hesitation  in  admitting. 

But  though  thus  hastily,  and  to  some  extent  incautiously, 
thrown  into  form,  the  statements  in  the  text  are  founded  on 
patient  and,  in  all  essential  particulars,  accurately  recorded 
observations  of  the  sky,  during  fifty  years  of  a life  of  solitude 
and  leisure  ; and  in  all  they  contain  of  what  may  seem  to  the 
reader  questionable,  or  astonishing,  are  guardedly  and  abso- 
lutely true. 

In  many  of  the  reports  given  by  the  daily  press,  my  asser- 
tion of  radical  change,  during  recent  years,  in  weather  aspect 
was  scouted  as  imaginary,  or  insane.  I am  indeed,  every  day 
of  my  yet  spared  life,  more  and  more  grateful  that  my  mind  is 
capable  of  imaginative  vision,  and  liable  to  the  noble  dangers 
of  delusion  which  separate  the  speculative  intellect  of  human- 
ity from  the  dreamless  instinct  of  brutes  : but  I have  been 
able,  during  all  active  work,  to  use  or  refuse  my  power  of 
contemplative  imagination,  with  as  easy  command  of  it  as  a 
physicist’s  of  his  telescope  : the  times  of  morbid  are  just  as 
easily  distinguished  by  me  from  those  of  healthy  vision,  as  by 
men  of  ordinary  faculty,  dream  from  waking  ; nor  is  there  a 


362 


PREFACE. 


single  fact  stated  in  the  following  pages  which  I have  not  ver« 
ified  with  a chemist’s  analysis,  and  a geometer’s  precision. 

The  first  lecture  is  printed,  with  only  addition  here  and 
there  of  an  elucidatory  word  or  phrase,  precisely  as  it  was 
given  on  the  4th  February.  In  repeating  it  on  the  11th,  I am- 
plified several  passages,  and  substituted  for  the  concluding 
one,  which  had  been  printed  with  accuracy  in  most  of  the 
leading  journals,  some  observations  which  I thought  calculated 
to  be  of  more  general  interest.  To  these,  with  the  additions  in 
the  first  text,  I have  now  prefixed  a few  explanatory  notes,  to 
which  numeral  references  are  given  in  the  pages  they  explain, 
and  have  arranged  the  fragments  in  connection  clear  enough 
to  allow  of  their  being  read  with  ease  as  a second  Lecture. 


Herne  Hill,  12th  March , 


CONTENTS. 


PAGB 

PREFA*  E 3C1 

Lecture  I.  (February  4) 365 

Lecture  II.  (February  11) 393 

Index  429 


THE  STORM-CLOUD  OF  THE 
NINETEENTH  CENTURY. 


LECTURE  I. 

Let  me  first  assure  my  audience  that  I have  no  arriere  pemee 
in  the  title  chosen  for  this  lecture.  I might,  indeed,  have 
meant,  and  it  would  have  been  only  too  like  me  to  mean,  an^ 
number  of  things  by  such  a title  ; — but,  to-night,  I mean  sim- 
ply what  I have  said,  and  propose  to  bring  to  your  notice  a 
series  of  cloud  phenomena,  which,  so  far  as  I can  weigh  ex- 
isting evidence,  are  peculiar  to  our  own  times  ; yet  which 
have  not  hitherto  received  any  special  notice  or  description 
from  meteorologists. 

So  far  as  the  existing  evidence,  I say,  of  former  literature 
can  be  interpreted,  the  storm-cloud — or  more  accurately 
plague-cloud,  for  it  is  not  always  stormy — which  I am  about 
to  describe  to  you,  never  was  seen  but  by  now  living,  or  lately 
living  eyes.  It  is  not  yet  twenty  years  that  this — I may  well 
call  it,  wonderful,  cloud  has  been,  in  its  essence,  recognizable. 
There  is  no  description  of  it,  so  far  as  I have  read,  by  any 
ancient  observer.  Neither  Homer  nor  Virgil,  neither  Aris- 
tophanes nor  Horace,  acknowledges  any  such  clouds  among 
those  compelled  by  Jove.  ' Chaucer  has  no  word  of  them,  nor 
Dante ; 1 Milton  none,  nor  Thomson.  In  modern  times, 
Scott,  Wordsworth  and  Byron  are  alike  unconscious  of  them  ; 
and  the  most  observant  and  descriptive  of  scientific  men,  De 
Saussure,  is  utterly  silent  concerning  them.  Taking  up  the 
traditions  of  air  from  the  year  before  Scott’s  death,  I am  able, 
by  my  own  constant  and  close  observation,  to  certify  you  that 


366 


TEE  STORM-CLOUD  OF 


in  the  forty  following  years  (1831  to  1871  approximately — for 
the  phenomena  in  question  came  on  gradually) — no  such 
clouds  as  these  are,  and  are  now  often  for  months  without 
intermission,  were  ever  seen  in  the  skies  of  England,  France, 
or  Italy. 

In  those  old  days,  when  weather  was  fine,  it  was  luxuriously 
fine  ; when  it  was  bad — it  was  often  abominably  bad,  but  it 
had  its  fit  of  temper  and  was  done  with  it — it  didn’t  sulk  for 
three  months  without  letting  you  see  the  sun, — nor  send  you 
one  cyclone  inside  out,  every  Saturday  afternoon,  and  another 
outside  in,  every  Monday  morning. 

In  fine  weather  the  sky  was  either  blue  or  clear  in  its  light ; 
the  clouds,  either  white  or  golden,  adding  to,  not  abating, 
the  lustre  of  the  sky.  In  wet  weather,  there  were  two  differ- 
ent‘species  of  clouds, — those  of  beneficent  rain,  which  for 
distinction’s  sake  I will  call  the  non-electric  rain-cloud,  and 
those  of  storm,  usually  charged  highly  with  electricity.  The 
beneficent  rain-cloud  was  indeed  often  extremely  dull  and 
grey  for  days  together,  but  gracious  nevertheless,  felt  to  be 
doing  good,  and  often  to  be  delightful  after  drought ; capable 
also  of  the  most  exquisite  colouring,  under  certain  conditions ; 2 
and  continually  traversed  in  clearing  by  the  rainbow : — and, 
secondly,  the  storm-cloud,  always  majestic,  often  dazzlingly 
beautiful,  and  felt  also  to  be  beneficent  in  its  own  way,  affect- 
ing the  mass  of  the  air  with  vital  agitation,  and  purging  it 
from  the  impurity  of  all  morbific  elements. 

In  the  entire  system  of  the  Firmament,  thus  seen  and  un- 
derstood, there  appeared  to  be,  to  all  the  thinkers  of  those 
ages,  the  incontrovertible  and  unmistakable  evidence  of  a 
Divine  Power  in  creation,  which  had  fitted,  as  the  air  for 
human  breath,  so  the  clouds  for  human  sight  and  nourish- 
ment ; — the  Father  who  was  in  heaven  feeding  day  by  day  the 
souls  of  His  children  with  marvels,  and  satisfying  them  with 
bread,  and  so  filling  their  hearts  with  food  and  gladness. 

Their  hearts , you  will  observe,  it  is  said,  not  merely  their 
bellies, — or  indeed  not  at  all,  in  this  sense,  their  bellies — but 
the  heart  itself,  with  its  blood  for  this  life,  and  its  faith  for  the 
next.  The  opposition  between  this  idea  and  the  notions  oi 


THE  NINETEENTH  CENTURY . 


. 367 


our  own  time  may  be  more  accurately  expressed  by  modifica- 
tion of  the  Greek  than  of  the  English  sentence.  The  old 
Greek  is — 

ifiiri7r\uv  rpoepris  tea ] evcppoerv vt]s 
rhs  napSlas  rip-icv. 

filling*  with  meat,  and  cheerfulness,  our  hearts.  The  modern 
Greek  should  be — 

ip.Tnr\'2v  aviaou  ita\  atppotruvps 
ras  yaerrepas  r)ix2v. 

filling  with  wind,  and  foolishness,  our  stomachs. 

You  will  not  think  I waste  your  time  in  giving*  you  two 
cardinal  examples  of  the  sort  of  evidence  which  the  higher 
forms  of  literature  furnish  respecting  the  cloud-plienomena 
of  former  times. 

When,  in  the  close  of  my  lecture  on  landscape  last  year  at 
Oxford,  I spoke  of  stationary  clouds  as  distinguished  from 
passing  ones,  some  blockheads  wrote  to  the  papers  to  say  that 
clouds  never  were  stationary.  Those  foolish  letters  were  so 
far  useful  in  causing*  a friend  to  write  me  the  pretty  one  I am 
about  to  read  to  you,  quoting  a passage  about  clouds  in  Homer 
which  I had  myself  never  noticed,  though  perhaps  the  most 
beautiful  of  its  kind  in  the  Iliad.  In  the  fifth  book,  after  the 
truce  is  brokefi,  and  the  aggressor  Trojans  are  rushing*  to  the 
onset  in  a tumult  of  clamour  and  charge,  Homer  says  that  the 
Greeks,  abiding  them,  “stood  like  clouds.”  My  correspon- 
dent, giving  the  passage,  writes  as  follows  : 

“Sir, — Last  winter  when  I *was  at  Ajaccio,  I was  one  day 
reading  Homer  by  the  open  window,  and  came  upon  the 
lines — 

*AA\*  ip.svov,  vecpeXyCLV  ion e6res  as  tc  K popiuv 
’Nrjv^p.'iris  eVrTjrref'  in r’  aKpoirdkoicriv  opecraiv, 

*A rpepas,  bepp  euSperi  pepos  B opeao  teal  &Wup 
Zayjpsiiv  apeua-p,  olre  peipea  aniAevra 
Tlpoiyatp  kvyvpfitri  SiacnaSpamp  a eyres  • 

'fls  Auvaol  T pwas  pApop  eptrehov,  oh 5’  iepe&ovro. 

‘ But  they  stood,  like  the  clouds  which  the  Son  of  Kronos 
stablishes  in  calm  upon  the  mountains,  motionless,  when  the 


36S 


THE  STORM-CLOUD  OF 


rage  of  the  North  and  of  all  the  fiery  winds  is  asleep.’  As  1 
finished  these  lines,  I raised  my  eyes,  and  looking  across  the 
gulf,  saw  a long  line  of  clouds  resting  on  the  top  of  its  hills. 
The  day  was  windless,  and  there  they  stayed,  hour  after  hour, 
without  any  stir  or  motion.  I remember  how  I was  delighted 
at  the  time,  and  have  often  since  that  day  thought  on  the 
beauty  and  the  truthfulness  of  Homer’s  simile. 

“Perhaps  this  little  fact  may  interest  you,  at  a time  when 
you  are  attacked  for  your  description  of  clouds. 

“ I am,  sir,  yours  faithfully, 

“ G.  B.  HILL.” 

With  this  bit  of  noonday  from  Homer,  I will  read  you  a 
sunset  and  a sunrise  from  Byron.  That  will  enough  express 
to  you  the  scope  and  sweep  of  all  glorious  literature,  from  the 
orient  of  Greece  herself  to  the  death  of  the  last  Englishman 
who  loved  her.3  I will  read  you  from  * Sardanapalus  ’ the  ad- 
dress of  the  Chaldean  priest  Beleses  to  the  sunset,  and  of  the 
Greek  slave,  Myrrha,  to  the  morning. 

“ The  sun  goes  down  : methinks  he  sets  more  slowly, 

Taking  his  last  look  of  Assyria’s  empire. 

How  red  he  glares  amongst  those  deepening  clouds,4 
Like  the  blood  he  predicts.5  If  not  in  vain, 

Thou  sun  that  sinkest,  and  ye  stars  which  rise, 

I have  outwatch’d  ye,  reading  ray  by  ray 
The  edicts  of  your  orbs,  which  make  Time  tremble 
For  what  he  brings  the  nations,  ’t  is  the  furthest 
Hour  of  Assyria's  years.  And  yet  how  calm  ! 

An  earthquake  should  announce  so  great  a fall — 

A summer's  sun  discloses  it.  Yon  disk 
To  the,  star-red  Chaldean,  bears  upon 
Its  everlasting  page  the  end  of  what 
Seem'd  everlasting  ; but  oh  ! thou  true  sun ! 

The  burning  oracle  of  all  that  lire , 

As  fountain  of  all  life , and  symbol  of 
Him  who  bestoics  it , wherefore  dost  thou  limit 
Thy  lore  unto  calamity  ? 6 Why  not 
Unfold  the  rise  of  days  more  worthy  thine 
All-glorious  burst  from  ocean  ? why  not  dart 
A beam  of  hope  athwart  the  future  years, 

As  of  wrath  to  its  days  ? Hear  me  ! oh,  hear  me ! 

I am  thy  worshipper,  thy  priest,  thy  servant— 


THE  NINETEENTH  CENTURY. 


109 


I have  gazed  on  thee  at  thy  rise  and  fall, 

And  bow’d  my  head  beneath  thy  mid-day  beams. 

When  my  eye  dared  not  meet  thee.  I have  watch  d 
For  thee,  and  after  thee,  and  pray’d  to  thee, 

And  sacrificed  to  thee,  and  read,  and  fear’d  thee, 

And  ask'd  of  thee,  and  thou  hast  answer’d — but 
Only  to  thus  much.  While  I speak,  he  sinks — 

Is  gone— and  leaves  his  beauty,  not  his  knowledge, 

To  the  delighted  west,  which  revels  in 

Its  hues  of  dying  glory.  Yet  what  is 

Death,  so  it  be  but  glorious  ? T is  a sunset ; 

And  mortals  may  be  happy  to  resemble 
The  gods  but  in  decay.” 

Thus  the  Chaldean  priest,  to  the  brightness  of  the  setting 
$un.  Hear  now  the  Greek  girl,  Myrrha,  of  his  rising, 

“ The  day  at  last  has  broken.  What  a night 
Hath  usher'd  it ! How  beautiful  in  heaven  ! 

Though  varied  with  a transitory  storm, 

More  beautiful  in  that  variety : 7 

How  hideous  upon  earth  ! where  peace,  and  hope. 

And  love,  and  revel,  in  an  hour  were  trampled 
By  human  passions  to  a human  chaos, 

Not  yet  resolved  to  separate  elements  : — 

’T  is  warring  still ! And  can  the  sun  so  rise, 

So  bright,  so  rolling  back  the  clouds  into 
Vapours  more  lovely  than  the  unclouded  sky , 

With  golden  pinnacles,  and  snowy  mountains, 

And  billows  purpler  than  the  ocean’s,  making 
In  heaven  a glorious  mockery  of  the  earth, 

So  like, — we  almost  deem  it  permanent  ; 

So  fleeting, — we  can  scarcely  call  it  aught 
Beyond  a vision,  ’t  is  so  transiently 
Scatter’d  along  the  eternal  vault : and  yet 
It  dwells  upon  the  soul,  and  soothes  the  soul, 

And  blends  itself  into  the  soul,  until 
Sunrise  and  sunset  form  the  haunted  epoch 
Of  sorrow  and  of  love.  ” 

How  often  now— young  maids  of  London, — do  you  make 
sunrise  the  ‘ haunted  epoch  ’ of  either  ? 

Thus  much,  then,  of  the  skies  that  used  to  be,  and  clouds 
“ more  lovely  than  the  unclouded  sky,”  and  of  the  temper  of 


370 


TEE  STORM-CLOUD  OF 


their  observers.  I pass  to  the  account  of  clouds  that  are: 
and — I say  it  with  sorrow — of  the  eftstemper  of  tlieir  ob- 
servers. 

But  the  general  division  which  I have  instituted  between 
bad-weather  and  fair-weather  clouds  must  be  more  carefully 
carried  out  in  the  sub-species,  before  we  can  reason  of  it 
farther  : and  before  we  begin  talk  either  of  the  sub-genera  and 
sub-species,  or  super-genera  and  super- species  of  cloud,  per- 
haps we  had  better  define  what  every  cloud  is,  and  must  be, 
to  begin  with. 

Every  cloud  that  can  be,  is  thus  primarily  definable  : “Vis- 
ible vapour  of  water  floating  at  a certain  height  in  the  air.” 
The  second  clause  of  this  definition,  you  see,  at  once  implies 
that  there  is  such  a thing  as  visible  vapour  of  water  which 
does  not  float  at  a certain  height  in  the  air.  You  are  all 
familiar  with  one  extremely  cognizable  variety  of  that  sort  of 
vapour— London  Particular  ; but  that  especial  blessing  of 
metropolitan  society  is  only  a strongly-developed  and  highly- 
seasoned  condition  of  a form  of  watery  vapour  which  exists 
just  as  generally  and  widely  at  the  bottom  of  the  air,  as  the 
clouds  do — on  what,  for  convenience’  sake,  we  may  call  the 
top 'of  it; — only  as  yet,  thanks  to  the  sagacity  of  scientific 
men,  we  have  got  no  general  name  for  the  bottom  cloud, 
though  the  whole  question  of  cloud  nature  begins  in  this 
broad  fact,  that  you  have  one  kind  of  vapour  that  lies  to  a 
certain  depth  on  the  ground,  and  another  that  floats  at  a 
certain  height  in  the  sky.  Perfectly  definite,  in  both  cases, 
the  surface  level  of  the  earthly  vapour,  and  the  roof  level  of 
the  heavenly  vapour,  are  each  of  them  drawn  within  the 
depth  of  a fathom.  Under  their  line,  drawn  for  the  day  and 
for  the  hour,  the  clouds  will  not  stoop,  and  above  theirs,  the 
mists  will  not  rise.  Each  in  their  own  region,  high  or  deej), 
may  expatiate  at  their  pleasure  ; within  that,  they  climb,  or 
decline, — within  that  they  congeal  or  melt  away  ; but  below 
their  assigned  horizon  the  surges  of  the  cloud  sea  may  not 
sink,  and  the  floods  of  the  mist  lagoon  may  not  be  swollen. 

That  is  the  first  idea  you  have  to  get  well  into  your  minds 
concerning  the  abodes  of  this  visible  vapour ; next,  you  have 


THE  NINETEENTH  CENTURY. 


371 


to  consider  the  manner  of  its  visibility.  Is  it,  you  have  to 
ask,  with  cloud  vapour,  as  with  most  other  things,  that  they 
are  seen  when  they  are  there,  and  not  seen  when  they  are  not 
there  ? or  has  cloud  vapour  so  much  of  the  ghost  in  it,  that 
it  can  be  visible  or  invisible  as  it  likes,  and  may  perhaps  be 
all  unpleasantly  and  malignantly  there,  just  as  much  when  we 
don’t  see  it,  as  when  we  do  ? To  which  I answer,  comfort- 
ably and  generally,  that,  on  the  whole,  a cloud  is  where 
you  see  it,  and  isn’t  where  you  don’t ; that,  when  there’s  an 
evident  and  honest  thunder-cloud  in  the  north-east,  you 
needn’t  suppose  there’s  a surreptitious  and  slinking  one  in 
the  north-west ; — when  there’s  a visible  fog  at  Bermondsey,  it 
doesn’t  follow  there’s  a spiritual  one,  more  than  usual,  at  the 
West  End  : and  when  you  get  up  to  the  clouds,  and  can  walk 
into  them  or  out  of  them,  as  you  like,  you  find  when  you’re 
in  them  they  wet  your  whiskers,  or  take  out  your  curls,  and 
when  you’re  out  of  them,  they  don’t ; and  therefore  you  may 
with  probability  assume — not  with  certainty,  observe,  but  with 
probability — that  there’s  more  water  in  the  air  where  it  damps 
your  curls  than  where  it  doesn’t.  If  it  gets  much  denser  than 
that,  it  will  begin  to  rain  ; and  then  you  may  assert,  certainly 
with  safety,  that  there  is  a shower  in  one  place,  and  not  in 
another  ; and  not  allow  the  scientific  people  to  tell  you  that 
the  rain  is  everywhere,  but  palpable  in  Tooley  Street,  and  im- 
palpable in  Grosvenor  Square. 

That,  I say,  is  broadly  and  comfortably  so  on  the  whole, — 
and  yet  with  this  kind  of  qualification  and  farther  condition  in 
the  matter.  If  you  watch  the  steam  coming  strongly  out  of 
an  engine-funnel/ — at  the  top  of  the  funnel  it  is  transparent, 
— you  can’t  see  it,  though  it  is  more  densely  and  intensely 
there  than  anywhere  else.  Six  inches  out  of  the  funnel  it  be- 
comes snow-white, — you  see  it,  and  you  see  it,  observe,  exactly 
wdiere  it  is, — it  is  then  a real  and  proper  cloud.  Twenty  yards 
off  the  funnel  it  scatters  and  melts  away  ; a little  of  it  sprinkles 
you  with  rain  if  you  are  underneath  it,  but  the  rest  disappears  ; 
yet  it  is  still  there  ; — the  surrounding  air  does  not  absorb  it  all 
into  space  in  a moment ; there  is  a gradually  diffusing  current 
of  invisible  moisture  at  the  end  of  the  visible  stream — an  in- 


372 


THE  STORM-CLOUD  OF 


visible,  yet  quite  substantial,  vapour  ; but  not,  according  to 
our  definition,  a cloud,  for  a cloud  is  vapour  visible. 

Then  the  next  bit  of  the  question,  of  course,  is,  What  makes 
the  vapour  visible,  when  it  is  so  ? Why  is  the  compressed 
steam  transparent,  the  loose  steam  white,  the  dissolved  steam 
transparent  again  ? 

The  scientific  people  tell  you  that  the  vapour  becomes  vis- 
ible,  and  chilled,  as  it  expands.  Many  thanks  to  them ; but 
can  they  show  us  any  reason  why  particles  of  water  should 
be  more  opaque  when  they  are  separated  than  when  they  are 
close  together,  or  give  us  any  idea  of  the  difference  of  the 
state  of  a particle  of  water,  which  won’t  sink  in  the  air,  from 
that  of  one  that  won’t  rise  in  it  ? u 

And  here  I must  parenthetically  give  you  a little  word  of, 
I will  venture  to  say,  extremely  useful,  advice  about  scientific 
people  in  general.  Their  first  business  is,  of  course,  to  tell 
you  things  that  are  so,  and  do  happen, — as  that,  if  you  wTarm 
water,  it  will  boil ; if  you  cool  it,  it  will  freeze  ; and  if  you 
put  a candle  to  a cask  of  gunpowder,  it  will  blow  you  up. 
Their  second,  and  far  more  important  business,  is  to  tell  you 
what  you  had  best  do  under  the  circumstances, — put  the 
kettle  on  in  time  for  tea ; powder  your  ice  and  salt,  if  you 
have  a mind  for  ices ; and  obviate  the  chance  of  explosion  by 
not  making  the  gunpowder.  But  if,  beyond  this  safe  and 
beneficial  business,  they  ever  try  to  explain  anything  to  you, 
you  may  be  confident  of  one  of  two  things, — either  that  they 
know  nothing  (to  speak  of)  about  it,  or  that  they  have  only  seen 
one  side  of  it — and  not  only  haven’t  seen,  but  usually  have  no 
mind  to  see,  the  other.  When,  for  instance,  Professor  Tyndall 
explains  the  twisted  beds  of  the  Jungfrau  to  you  by  intimat- 
ing that  the  Matterhorn  is  growing  flat ; 10  or  the  clouds  on 
the  lee  side  of  the  Matterhorn  by  the  wind’s  rubbing  against 
the  windward  side  of  it, 1 1 — you  may  be  pretty  sure  the  scien- 
tific people  don’t  knowT  much  (to  speak  of)  yet,  either  about 
rock-beds,  or  cloud-beds.  And  even  if  the  explanation,  so  to 
call  it,  be  sound  on  one  side,  windward  or  lee,  you  may,  as  I 
said,  be  nearly  certain  it  won’t  do  on  the  other.  Take  the 
very  top  and  centre  of  scientific  interpretation  by  the  greatest 


THE  NINETEENTH  CENTURY. 


373 


of  its  masters : Newton  explained  to  you — or  at  least  was  once 
supposed  to  have  explained — wliy  an  apple  fell ; but  lie  never 
thought  of  explaining  the  exactly  correlative,  but  infinitely 
more  difficult  question,  how  the  apple  got  up  there  ! 

You  will  not,  therefore,  so  please  you,  expect  me  to  explain 
anything  to  you, — I have  come  solely  and  simply  to  put  be- 
fore you  a few  facts,  which  you  can’t  see  by  candlelight,  or  in 
railroad  tunnels,  but  which  are  making  themselves  now  so 
very  distinctly  felt  as  well  as  seen,  that  you  may  perhaps  have 
to  roof,  if  not  wall,  half  London  afresh  before  we  are  many 
years  older. 

I go  back  to  my  point — the  way  in  which  clouds,  as  a mat- 
ter of  fact,  become  visible.  I have  defined  the  floating  or  sky 
cloud,  and  defined  the  falling,  or  earth  cloud.  But  there’s  a 
sort  of  thing  between  the  two,  which  needs  a third  definition  : 
namely,  Mist.  In  the  22nd  page  of  his  ‘ Glaciers  of  the  Alps,’ 
Professor  Tyndall  says  that  “ the  marvellous  blueness  of  the 
sky  in  the  earlier  part  of  the  day  indicated  that  the  air  was 
charged,  almost  to  saturation,  with  transparent  aqueous  va- 
pour.” Well,  in  certain  wTeather  that  is  true.  You  all  know 
the  peculiar  clearness  which  precedes  rain, — when  the  distant 
hills  are  looking  nigh.  I take  it  on  trust  from  the  scientific 
people  that  there  is  then  a quantity — almost  to  saturation — 
of  aqueous  vapour  in  the  air,  but  it  is  aqueous  vapour  in  a 
state  which  makes  the  air  more  transparent  than  it  would  be 
without  it.  What  state  of  aqueous  molecule  is  that,  abso- 
lutely unreflective  12  of  light — perfectly  transmissive  of  light, 
and  showing  at  once  the  colour  of  blue  water  and  blue  air  on 
the  distant  hills  ? 

I put  the  question — and  pass  round  to  the  other  side. 
Such  a clearness,  though  a certain  forerunner  of  rain,  is  not  al- 
ways its  forerunner.  Far  the  contrary.  Thick  air  is  a much 
more  frequent  forerunner  of  rain  than  clear  air.  In  cool 
weather,  you  will  often  get  the  transparent  prophecy  : but  in 
hot  weather,  or  in  certain  not  hitherto  defined  states  of  at- 
mosphere, the  forerunner  of  rain  is  mist.  In  a general  way, 
after  you  have  had  two  or  three  days  of  rain,  the  air  and  sky 
are  healthily  clear,  and  the  sun  bright.  If  it  is  hot  also,  the 


374 


THE  STORM-CLOUD  OF 


next  day  is  a little  mistier — the  next  misty  and  sultry, — and 
the  next  and  the  next,  getting  thicker  and  thicker — end  in 
another  storm,  or  period  of  rain. 

I suppose  the  thick  air,  as  well  as  the  transparent,  is  in  both 
cases  saturated  with  aqueous  vapour  ; — but  also  in  both,  ob- 
serve, vapour  that  floats  everywhere,  as  if  you  mixed  mud  with 
the  sea ; and  it  takes  no  shape  anywhere  : you  may  have  it  with 
calm,  or  with  wind,  it  makes  no  difference  to  it.  You  have  a 
nasty  haze  with  a bitter  east  wind,  or  a nasty  haze  with  not  a 
leaf  stirring,  and  you  may  have  the  clear  blue  vapour  with  a 
fresh  rainy  breeze,  or  the  clear  vapour  as  still  as  the  sky 
above.  What  difference  is  there  between  these  aqueous  mole- 
cules that  are  clear,  and  those  that  are  muddy,  these  that  must 
sink  or  rise,  and  those  that  must  stay  where  they  are,  these 
that  have  form  and  stature,  that  are  bellied  like  whales  and 
backed  like  weasels,  and  those  that  have  neither  backs  nor 
fronts,  nor  feet  nor  faces,  but  are  a mist — and  no  more — over 
two  or  three  thousand  square  miles  ? 

I again  leave  the  questions  writh  you,  and  pass  on. 

Hitherto  I have  spoken  of  all  aqueous  vapour  as  if  it  were 
either  transparent  or  white — visible  by  becoming  opaque  like 
snow,  but  not  by  any  accession  of  colour.  But  even  those  of 
us  who  are  least  observant  of  skies,  know  that,  irrespective  of 
all  supervening  colours  from  the  sun,  there  are  white  clouds,, 
brown  clouds,  grey  clouds,  and  black  clouds.  Are  these  in- 
deed— what  they  appear  to  be — entirely  distinct  monastic 
disciplines  of  cloud  ; Black  Friars,  and  White  Friars,  and 
Friars  of  Orders  Grey  ? Or  is  it  only  their  various  near- 
ness to  us,  their  denseness,  and  the  failing  of  the  light 
upon  them,  that  makes  some  clouds  look  black 13  and  others 
snowy  ? 

I can  only  give  you  qualified  and  cautious  answer.  There 
are,  by  differences  in  their  own  character,  Dominican  clouds, 
and  there  are  Franciscan  ; — there  are  the  Black  Hussars  oi 
the  Bandiera  della  Morte,  and  there  are  the  Scots  Greys 
whose  horses  can  run  upon  the  rock.  But  if  you  ask  me,  as  I 
would  have  you  ask  me,  why  argent  and  why  sable,  how  bap- 
tized in  white  like  a bride  or  a novice,  and  how  hooded  with 


THE  NINETEENTH  CENTURY.  575 

blackness  like  a Judge  of  the  Vehmgericht  Tribunal, — I leave 
these  questions  with  you,  and  pass  on. 

Admitting*  degrees  of  darkness,  we  have  next  to  ask  what 
colour  from  sunshine  can  the  white  cloud  receive,  and  what 
the  black  ? 

You  won’t  expect  me  to  tell  you  all  that,  or  even  the  little 
that  is  accurately  known  about  that,  in  a quarter  of  an  hour  ; 
yet  note  these  main  facts  on  the  matter. 

On  any  pure  white,  and  practically  opaque,  cloud,  or  thing 
like  a cloud,  as  an  Alp,  or  Milan  Cathedral,  you  can  have  cast 
by  rising  or  setting  sunlight,  any  tints  of  amber,  orange,  or 
moderately  deep  rose — you  can’t  have  lemon  j^ellows,  or  any 
kind  of  green  except  in  negative  hue  by  opposition  ; and 
though  by  storm-light  you  may  sometimes  get  the  reds  cast 
very  deep,  beyond  a certain  limit  you  cannot  go, — the  Alps 
are  never  vermilion  colour,  nor  flamingo  colour,  nor  canary 
colour  ; nor  did  you  ever  see  a full  scarlet  cumulus  of  thun- 
der-cloud. 

On  opaque  white  vapour,  then,  remember,  you  can  get  a 
glow  or  a blush  of  colour,  never  a flame  of  it. 

But  when  the  cloud  is  transparent  as  well  as  pure,  and  can 
be  filled  with  light  through  all  the  body  of  it,  you  then  can 
have  by  the  light  reflected  14  from  its  atoms  any  force  conceiv- 
able by  human  mind  of  the  entire  group  of  the  golden  and 
ruby  colours,  from  intensely  burnished  gold  colour,  through 
a scarlet  for  whose  brightness  there  are  no  words,  into  any 
depth  and  any  hue  of  Tyrian  crimson  and  Byzantine  purple. 
These  with  full  blue  breathed  between  them  at  the  zenith, 
and  green  blue  nearer  the  horizon,  form  the  scales  and  chords 
of  colour  possible  to  the  morning  and  evening  sky  in  pure 
and  fine  weather  ; the  keynote  of  the  opposition  being  ver- 
milion against  green  blue,  both  of  equal  tone,  and  at  such  a 
height  and  acme  of  brilliancy  that  you  cannot  see  the  line 
where  their  edges  pass  into  each  other. 

No  colours  that  can  be  fixed  in  earth  can  ever  represent  to 
you  the  lustre  of  these  cloudy  ones.  But  the  actual  tints 
may  be  shown  you  in  a lower  key,  and  to  a certain  extent 
their  power  and  relation  to  each  other. 

$ 


376 


THE  STORM-CLOUD  OF 


1 have  painted  the  diagram  here  shown  you  with  colours 
prepared  for  me  lately  by  Messrs.  Newman,  which  I find  bril- 
liant to  the  height  that  pigments  can  be  ; and  the  ready  kind- 
ness of  Mr.  Wilson  Barrett  enables  me  to  show  you  their  ef- 
fect by  a white  light  as  pure  as  that  of  the  day.  The  diagram 
is  enlarged  from  my  careful  sketch  of  the  sunset  of  1st  Octo* 
ber,  1868,  at  Abbeville,  which  was  a beautiful  example  of 
what,  in  fine  weather  about  to  pass  into  storm,  a sunset  could 
then  be,  in  the  districts  of  Kent  and  Picardy  unaffected  by 
smoke.  In  reality,  the  ruby  and  vermilion  clouds  were,  by 
myriads,  more  numerous  than  I have  had  time  to  paint : but 
the  general  character  of  their  grouping  is  well  enough  ex- 
pressed. All  the  illumined  clouds  are  high  in  the  air,  and 
nearly  motionless  ; beneath  them,  electric  storm-cloud  rises 
in  a threatening  cumulus  on  the  right,  and  drifts  in  dark 
fiakes  across  the  horizon,  casting  from  its  broken  masses  ra- 
diating shadows  on  the  upper  clouds.  These  shadows  are 
traced,  in  the  first  place  by  making  the  misty  blue  of  the 
open  sky  more  transparent,  and  therefore  darker  ; and  sec- 
ondly, by  entirely  intercepting  the  sunbeams  on  the  bars  of 
cloud,  which,  within  the  shadowed  spaces,  show  dark  on  the 
blue  instead  of  light. 

But,  mind,  ail  that  is  done  by  reflected  light — and  in  that 
light  you  never  get  a green  ray  from  the  reflecting  cloud  ; 
there  is  no  such  thing  in  nature  as  a green  lighted  cloud  re- 
lieved from  a red  sky, — the  cloud  is  always  red,  and  the  sky 
green,  and  green,  observe,  by  transmitted,  not  reflected  light. 

But  now  note,  there  is  another  kind  of  cloud,  pure  white, 
and  exquisitely  delicate  ; which  acts  not  by  reflecting,  nor  by 
refracting,  but,  as  it  is  now  called,  cft/Tracting,  the  sun’s  rays. 
The  particles  of  this  cloud  are  said — with  what  truth  I know 
not JB — to  send  the  sunbeams  round  them  instead  of  through 
them  ; somehow  or  other,  at  any  rate,  they  resolve  them  into 
their  prismatic  elements  ; and  then  you  have  literally  a ka- 
leidoscope in  the  sky,  with  every  colour  of  the  prism  in  ab- 
solute purity ; but  above  all  in  force,  now,  the  ruby  red  and 
the  green , — with  purple,  and  violet-blue,  in  a virtual  equality, 
more  definite  than  that  of  the  rainbow.  The  red  in  the  rain* 


THE  NINETEENTH  CENTURY. 


377 


bow  is  mostly  brick  red,  the  violet,  though  beautiful,  often 
lost  at  the  edge  ; but  in  the  prismatic  cloud  the  violet,  the 
green,  and  the  ruby  are  all  more  lovely  than  in  any  precious 
stones,  and  they  are  varied  as  in  a bird’s  breast,  changing 
their  places,  depths,  and  extent  at  every  instant. 

The  main  cause  of  this  change  being,  that  the  prismatic 
cloud  itself  is  always  in  rapid,  and  generally  in  fluctuating 
motion.  “ A light  veil  of  clouds  had  drawn  itself,”  says  Pro- 
fessor Tyndall,  in  describing  his  solitary  ascent  of  Monte  Rosa, 
“ between  me  and  the  sUn,  and  this  was  flooded  with  the  most 
brilliant  dyes.  Orange,  red,  green,  blue — all  the  hues  pro- 
duced by  diffraction — were  exhibited  in  the  utmost  splendour. 

“ Three  times  during  my  ascent  (the  short  ascent  of  the 
last  peak)  similar  veils  drew  themselves  across  the  sun,  and  at 
each  passage  the  splendid  phenomena  were  renewed.  There 
seemed  a tendency  to  form  circular  zones  of  colour  round  the 
sun  ; but  the  clouds  were  not  sufficiently  uniform  to  permit 
of  this,  and  they  were  consequently  broken  into  spaces,  each 
steeped  with  the  colour  due  to  the  condition  of  the  cloud  at 
the  place.” 

Three  times,  you  observe,  the  veil  passed,  and  three  times 
another  came,  or  the  first  faded  and  another  formed  ; and  so 
it  is  always,  as  far  as  I have  registered  prismatic  cloud  : and 
the  most  beautiful  colours  I ever  saw  were  on  those  that  flew 
fastest. 

This  second  diagram  is  enlarged  admirably  by  Mr.  Arthur 
Severn  from  my  sketch  of  the  sky  in  the  afternoon  of  the  6th 
of  August,  1880,  at  Brantwood,  two  hours  before  sunset.  You 
are  looking  west  by  north,  straight  towards  the  sun,  and 
nearly  straight  towards  the  wind.  From  the  west  the  wind 
blows  fiercely  towards  you  out  of  the  blue  sky.  Under  the 
blue  space  is  a flattened  dome  of  earth-cloud  clinging  to,  and 
altogether  masquing  the  form  of,  the  mountain,  known  as  thf 
Old  Man  of  Coniston. 

The  top  of  that  dome  of  cloud  is  two  thousand  eight  hun- 
dred feet  above  the  sea,  the  mountain  two  thousand  six 
hundred,  the  cloud  lying  two  hundred  feet  deep  on  it.  Be- 
hind it,  westward  and  seaward,  all’s  clear ; but  when  ths* 


THE  STORM-CLOUD  OF 


378 

wind  out  of  that  blue  clearness  comes  over  the  ridge  of  the 
earth-cloud,  at  that  moment  and  that  line,  its  own  moisture 
congeals  into  these  white — I believe,  ice-clouds  ; threads,  and 
meshes,  and  tresses,  and  tapestries,  hying,  failing,  melting, 
reappearing ; spinning  and  unspinning  themselves,  coiling 
and  uncoiling,  winding  and  unwinding,  faster  than  eye  or 
thought  can  follow  : and  through  all  their  dazzling  maze  of 
frosty  filaments  shines  a painted  window  in  palpitation  ; its 
pulses  of  colour  interwoven  in  motion,  intermittent  in  fire, — 
emerald  and  ruby  and  pale  purple  and  violet  melting  into  a 
blue  that  is  not  of  the  sky,  but  of  the  sunbeam  ; — purer  than 
the  crystal,  softer  than  the  rainbow,  and  brighter  than  the 
snow. 

But  you  must  please  here  observe  that  while  my  first  dia- 
gram did  with  some  adequateness  represent  to  you  the  colour 
facts  there  spoken  of,  the  present  diagram  can  only  explain , 
not  reproduce  them.  Tlie  bright  reflected  colours  of  clouds 
can  be  represented  in  painting,  because  they  are  relieved 
against  darker  colours,  or,  in  many  cases,  are  dark  colours, 
the  vermilion  and  ruby  clouds  being  often  much  darker  than 
the  green  or  blue  sky  beyond  them.  But  in  the  case  of  the 
phenomena  now  under  your  attention,  the  colours  are  all 
brighter  than  pure  white, — the  .entire  body  of  the  cloud  in 
•which  they  show  themselves  being  white  by  transmitted  light, 
so  that  I can  only  show  you  what  the  colours  are,  and  where 
they  are, — but  leaving  them dark  on  the  white  ground.  Only 
artificial,  and  very  high  illumination  would  give  the  real  effect 
of  them, — painting  cannot. 

Enough,  however,  is  here  done  to  fix  in  your  minds  the  dis- 
tinction between  those  two  .species  of  cloud, — one,  either  sta- 
tionary,16 or  slow  in  motion,  reflecting  unresolved  light ; the 
other,  fast-flving,  and  transmitting  resolved  light.  What  differ- 
'ence  is  there  in  the  nature  of  the  atoms,  between  those  two 
kinds  of  clouds?  I leave  the  question  with  you  for  to  day, 
merely  hinting  to  you  my  suspicion  that  the  prismatic  cloud 
is  of  finely-comminuted  water,  or  ice,  17  instead  of  aqueous  va- 
pour ; but  the  only  clue  I have  to  this  idea  is  in  the  purity  of 
the  rainbow  formed  in  frost  mist,  lying  close  to  water  surfaces 


THE  NINETEENTH  CENTURY. 


379 


Such  mist,  however,  only  becomes  prismatic  as  common  rain 
does,  when  the  sun  is  behind  the  spectator,  while  prismatic 
clouds  are,  on  the  contrary,  always  between  the  spectator  and 
the  sun. 

The  main  reason,  howeveiy  why  I can  tell  you  nothing  yet 
about  these  colours  of  diffraction  or  interference,  is  that, 
whenever  I try  to  find  anything  firm  for  you  to  depend  on,  I 
am  stopped  by  the  quite  frightful  inaccuracy  of  the  scientific 
people’s  terms,  which  is  the  consequence  of  their  always  try- 
ing to  write  mixed  Latin  and  English,  so  losing  the  grace  of 
the  one  and  the  sense  of  the  other.  And,  in  this  point  of  the 
diffraction  of  light  I am  stopped  dead  by  their  confusion  of 
idea  also,  in  using  the  words  undulation  and  vibration  as  syno- 
nyms. “When,”  says  Professor  Tyndall,  “ you  are  told  that 
the  atoms  of  the  sun  vibrate  at  different  rates,  and  produce 
waves  of  different  sizes, — your  experience  of  water-waves  wifi 
enable  you  to  form  a tolerably  clear  notion  of  what  is  meant.’’ 

‘Tolerably  clear’! — your  toleration  must  be  considerable, 
then.  Do  you  suppose  a water-wave  is  like  a harp-string  1 
Vibration  is  the  movement  of  a body  in  a state  of  tension, — < 
undulation,  that  of  a body  absolutely  lax.  In  vibration,  not 
an  atom  of  the  body  changes  its  place  in  relation  to  another, 
— in  undulation,  not  an  atom  of  the  body  remains  in  the  same 
place  with  regard  to  another.  In  vibration,  every  particle  of 
the  body  ignores  gravitation,  or  defies  it, — in  undulation, 
every  particle  of  the  body  is  slavishly  submitted  to  it.  In  un- 
dulation, not  one  wrave  is  like  another ; in  vibration,  every 
pulse  is  alike.  And  of  undulation  itself,  there  are  all  manner 
of  visible  conditions,  which  are  not  true  conditions.  A flag 
ripples  in  the  wind,  but  it  does  not  undulate  as  the  sea  does, 
— for  in  the  sea,  the  water  is  taken  from  the  trough  to  put  on 
to  the  ridge,  but  in  the  flag,  though  the  motion  is  progressive, 
the  bits  of  bunting  keep  their  place.  You  see  a field  of  corn 
undulating  as  if  it  was  water, — it  is  different  from  the  flag,  for 
the  ears  of  corn  bow  out  of  their  places  and  return  to  them, 
— and  }'et,  it  is  no  more  like  the  undulation  of  the  sea,  than 
the  shaking  of  an  aspen  leaf  in  a storm,  or  the  lowering  of 
the  lances  in  a battle. 


380 


THE  STORM-CLOUD  OF 


And  the  best  of  the  jest  is,  that  after  mixing  up  these  two 
notions  in  their  heads  inextricably,  the  scientific  people  apply 
both  when  neither  will  fit ; and  when  all  undulation  known  to 
us  presumes  weight,  and  all  vibration,  impact, — the  undulating 
theory  of  light  is  proposed  to  you  concerning  a medium  which 
you  can  neither  weigh  nor  touch  ! 

All  communicable  vibration — of  course  I mean — and  in  dead 
matter  : You  may  fall  a shivering  on  your  own  account,  if  you 
like,  but  you  can’t  get  a billiard-ball  to  fall  a shivering  on  its 
own  account. 18 

Yet  observe  that  in  thus  signalizing  the  inaccuracy  of  the 
terms  in  which  they  are  taught,  I neither  accept,  nor  assail, 
the  conclusions  respecting  the  oscillatory  states  of  light,  heat, 
and  sound,  which  have  resulted  from  the  postulate  of  an  elas- 
tic, though  impalpable  and  imponderable  ether,  possessing 
the  elasticity  of  air.  This  only  I desire  you  to  mark  with  at- 
tention,— that  both  light  and  sound  are  sensations  of  the  ani- 
mal frame,  which  remain,  and  must  remain,  wholly  inexplica- 
ble, whatever  manner  of  force,  pulse,  or  palpitation  may  be 
instrumental  in  producing  them  : nor  does  any  such  force  be- 
come light  or  sound,  except  in  its  rencontre  with  an  animal. 
The  leaf  hears  no  murmur  in  the  wind  to  which  it  wavers  on 
the  branches,  nor  can  the  clay  discern  the  vibration  by  which 
it  is  thrilled  into  a ruby.  The  Eye  and  the  Ear  are  the  crea- 
tors alike  of  the  ray  and  the  tone  ; and  the  conclusion  follows 
logically  from  the  right  conception  of  their  living  power, — 
“ He  that  planted  the  Ear,  shall  He  not  hear  ? He  that  formed 
the  Eye,  shall  not  He  see  ? ” 

For  security,  therefore,  and  simplicity  of  definition  of  light, 
you  will  find  no  possibility  of  advancing  beyond  Plato’s  “the 
power  that  through  the  eye  manifests  colour,”  but  on  that 
definition,  you  will  find,  alike  by  Plato  and  all  great  subse- 
quent thinkers,  a moral  Science  of  Light  founded,  far  and 
away  more  important  to  you  than  all  the  physical  laws  ever 
learned  by  vitreous  revelation.  Concerning  which  I will  refer 
you  to  the  sixth  lecture  which  I gave  at  Oxford  in  1872,  on 
the  relation  of  Art  to  the  Science  of  Light  (‘  Eagle’s  Nest,’  p. 
75),  reading  now  only  the  sentence  introducing  its  subject: 


THE  NINETEENTH  CENTURY. 


38 1 


— Tlie  c Fiat  lux  * of  creation  is  therefore,  in  the  deep  sense, 
‘fiat  anima,’  and  is  as  much,  when  you  understand  it,  the 
ordering  of  Intelligence  as  the  ordering  of  Vision.  It  is  the 
appointment  of  change  of  what  had  been  else  only  a mechan- 
ical effluence  from  things  unseen  to  things  unseeing, — from 
Stars,  that  did  not  shine,  to  Earth,  that  did  not  perceive, — the 
change,  I say,  of  that  blind  vibration  into  the  glory  of  the  Sun 
and  Moon  for  human  eyes  : so  making  possible  the  communi- 
cation out  of  the  unfathomable  truth  of  that  portion  of  truth 
which  is  good  for  us,  and  animating  to  us,  and  is  set  to  rule 
over  the  day  and  over  the  night  of  our  joy  and  our  sorrow.” 

Returning  now  to  our  subject  at  the  point  from  which  I 
permitted  myself,  I trust  not  without  your  pardon,  to  diverge  ; 
you  may  incidentally,  but  carefully,  observe,  that  the  effect, 
of  such  a sky  as  that  represented  in  the  second  diagram,  so 
far  as  it  can  be  abstracted  or  conveyed  by  painting  at  all, 
implies  the  total  absence  of  any  pervading  -warmth  of  tint,  such 
as  artists  usually  call  ‘ tone.’  Every  tint  must  be  the  purest 
possible,  and  above  all  the  white.  Partly,  lest  you  should 
think,  from  my  treatment  of  these  two  phases  of  effect,  that  I 
am  insensible  to  the  quality  of  tone, — and  partly  to  complete 
the  representation  of  states  of  weather  undefiled  by  plague- 
cloud,  yet  capable  of  the  most  solemn  dignity  in  saddening 
colour,  I show  you,  Diagram  3,  the  record  of  an  autumn  twi- 
light of  the  year  1845, — sketched  while  I was  changing  horses 
between  Verona  and  Brescia.  The  distant  sky  in  this  drawing 
is  in  the  glowing  calm  which  is  always  taken  by  the  great  Italian 
painters  for  the  background  of  their  sacred  pictures  ; a broad 
field  of  cloud  is  advancing  upon  it  overhead,  and  meeting 
others  enlarging  in  the  distance  ; these  are  rain-clouds,  which 
will  certainly  close  over  the  clear  sky,  and  bring  on  rain  before 
midnight : but  there  is  no  power  in  them  to  pollute  the  sky 
beyond  and  above  them  : they  do  not  darken  the  air,  nor  de- 
file it,  nor  in  any  way  mingle  with  it ; their  edges  are  bur- 
nished by  the  sun  like  the  edges  of  golden  shields,  and  their 
advancing  march  is  as  deliberate  and  majestic  as  the  fading  of 
the  twilight  itself  into  a darkness  full  of  stars. 

These  three  instances  are  all  I have  time  to  give  of  the 


382 


THE  SI  OHM-CLOUD  OF 


former  conditions  of  serene  weather,  and  of  non-electric  rain- 
cloud.  But  I must  yet,  to  complete  the  sequence  of  my  sub- 
ject, show  you  one  example  of  a good,  old-fashioned,  healthy, 
and  mighty,  storm. 

In  Diagram  4,  Mr.  Severn  has  beautifully  enlarged  my 
sketch  of  a July  thunder-cloud  of  the  year  1858,  on  the  Alps  ot 
the  Val  d’Aosta,  seen  from  Turin,  that  is  to  say,  some  twenty-five 
or  thirty  miles  distant.  You  see  that  no  mistake  is  possible 
here  about  what  is  good  weather  and  what  bad,  or  which  is 
cloud  and  which  is  sky  ; but  I show  you  this  sketch  especially 
to  give  you  the  scale  of  heights  for  such  clouds  in  the  atmo- 
sphere. These  thunder  cumuli  entirely  hide  the  higher  Alps. 
It  does  not,  however,  follow  that  they  have  buried  them,  for 
most  of  their  own  aspect  of  height  is  owing  to  the  approach 
of  their  nearer  masses ; but  at  all  events,  you  have  cumulus 
there  rising  from  its  base,  at  about  three  thousand  feet  above 
the  plain,  to  a good  ten  thousand  in  the  air. 

White  cirri,  in  reality  parallel,  but  by  perspective  radiating, 
catch  the  sunshine  above,  at  a height  of  from  fifteen  to  twenty 
thousand  feet ; but  the  storm  on  the  mountains  gathers  itself 
into  a full  mile’s  depth  of  massy  cloud, — every  fold  of  it  in- 
volved with  thunder,  but  every  form  of  it,  every  action, 
every  colour,  magnificent : — doing  its  mighty  work  in  its  own 
hour  and  its  own  dominion,  nor  snatching  from  you  for  an 
instant,  nor  defiling  with  a stain,  the  abiding  blue  of  the  tran- 
scendent sky,  or  the  fretted  silver  of  its  passionless  clouds. 

We  so  rarely  now  see  cumulus  cloud  of  this  grand  kind, 
that  I will  yet  delay  you  by  reading  the  description  of  its 
nearer  aspect,  in  the  113th  page  of  ‘Eagle’s  Nest.’ 

“ The  rain  which  flooded  our  fields  the  Sunday  before  last, 
was  followed,  as  you  will  remember,  by  bright  days,  of  which 
Tuesday  the  20th  (February,  1872)  was,  in  London,  notable 
for  the  splendour,  towards  the  afternoon,  of  its  white  cumulus 
clouds.  There  has  been  so  much  black  east  wind  lately,  and 
so  much  fog  and  artificial  gloom,  besides,  that  I find  it  is 
actually  some  two  years  since  I last  saw  a noble  cumulus 
cloud  under  full  light.  I chanced  to  be  standing  under  the 
Victoiia  Tower  at  Westminster,  when  the  largest  mass  of 


THE  NINETEENTH  CENTURY. 


383 


them  floated  past,  that  day,  from  the  north-west  ; and  I was 
more  impressed  then  ever  yet  by  the  awfulness  of  the  cloud- 
form,  and  its  unaccoun tableness,  in  the  present  state  of  our 
knowledge.  The  Victoria  Tower,  seen  against  it,  had  no 
magnitude  : it  was  like  looking  at  Mont  Blanc  over  a lamp- 
post.  The  domes  of  cloud-snow  were  heaped  as  definitely : 
their  broken  flanks  wrere  as  grey  and  firm  as  rocks,  and  the 
whole  mountain,  of  a compass  and  height  in  heaven  which 
only  became  more  and  more  inconceivable  as  the  eye  strove 
to  ascend  it,  was  passing  behind  the  tower  with  a steady 
march,  whose  swiftness  must  in  reality  have  been  that  of  a 
tempest : yet,  along  all  the  ravines  of  vapour,  precipice  kept 
pace  with  precipice,  and  not  one  thrust  another. 

“ What  is  it  that  hews  them  out  ? Why  is  the  blue  sky  pure 
there, — the  cloud  solid  here ; and  edged  like  marble : and 
why  does  the  state  of  the  blue  sky  pass  into  the  state  of  cloud, 
in  that  calm  advance  ? 

“ It  is  true  that  you  can  more  or  less  imitate  the  forms  of 
cloud  with  explosive  vapour  or  steam  ; but  the  steam  melts 
instantly,  and  the  explosive  vapour  dissipates  itself.  The 
cloud,  of  perfect  form,  proceeds  unchanged.  It  is  not  an  ex- 
plosion, but  an  enduring  and  advancing  presence.  The  more 
you  think  of  it,  the  less  explicable  it  will  become  to  you.” 

Thus  far  then  of  clouds  that  were  once  familiar ; now  at 
last,  entering  on  my  immediate  subject,  I shall  best  introduce 
it  to  you  by  reading  an  entry  in  my  diary  which  gives  pro- 
gressive description  of  the  most  gentle  aspect  of  the  modem 
plague-cloud. 

“Bolton  Abbey,  4tli  July,  1875. 

“ Half-past  eight,  morning  ; the  first  bright  morning  for 
the  last  fortnight. 

“At  half-past  five  it  was  entirely  clear,  and  entirely  calm  ; the 
moorlands  glowing,  and  the  Wharfe  glittering  in  sacred  light, 
and  even  the  thin-stemmed  field-flowers  quiet  as  stars,  in  the 
peace  in  which — 

‘ All  trees  and  simples,  great  and  small, 

That  balmy  leaf  do  bear, 

Than  they  were  painted  on  a wall, 

Iso  more  do  move,  nor  stein’ 


384 


THE  STORM-CLOUD  OF 


But,  an  hour  ago,  the  leaves  at  ray  window  first  shook  slightly. 
They  are  now  trembling  continuously , as  those  of  all  the  trees, 
under  a gradually  rising  wind,  of  which  the  tremulous  action 
scarcely  permits  the  direction  to  be  defined, — but  which  falls 
and  returns  in  fits  of  varying  force,  like  those  which  precede 
a thunderstorm — never  wholly  ceasing ; the  direction  of  its 
upper  current  is  shown  by  a few  ragged  white  clouds,  moving 
fast  from  the  north,  which  rose,  at  the  time  of  the  first  leaf- 
shaking,  behind  the  edge  of  the  moors  in  the  east. 

“ This  wind  is  the  plague-wind  of  the  eighth  decade  of  years 
in  the  nineteenth  century  ; a period  which  will  assuredly  be 
recognised  in  future  meteorological  history  as  one  of  phe- 
nomena hitherto  unrecorded  in  the  courses  of  nature,  and 
characterized  pre-eminently  by  the  almost  ceaseless  action  of 
this  calamitous  wind.  While  I have  been  waiting  these  sen- 
tences, the  wdiite  clouds  above  specified  have  increased  to  twice 
the  size  they  had  when  I began  to  write  ; and  in  about  twro 
hours  from  this  time — say  by  eleven  o'clock,  if  the  wind  con- 
tinue,— the  whole  sky  will  be  dark  with  them,  as  it  was  yes- 
terday, and  has  been  through  prolonged  periods  during  the 
last  five  years.  I first  noticed  the  definite  character  of  this 
wind,  and  of  the  clouds  it  brings  with  it,  in  the  year  1871, 
describing  it  then  in  the  July  number  of  ‘ Fors  Clavigera  ; ' 
but  little,  at  that  time,  apprehending  either  its  universality,  or 
any  probability  of  its  annual  continuance.  I am  able  now  to 
state  positively  that  its  range  of  power  extends  from  the  North 
of  England  to  Sicily  ; and  that  it  blows  more  or  less  during 
t he  whole  of  the  year,  except  the  early  autumn.  This  autumnal 
abdication  is,  I hope,  beginning  : it  blew  but  feebly  yesterday, 
though  without  intermission,  from  the  north,  making  every 
shady  place  cold,  while  the  sun  wras  burning  ; its  effect  on  the 
sky  being  only  to  dim  the  blue  of  it  between  masses  of  ragged 
cumulus.  To-day  it  has  entirely  fallen  ; and  there  seems  hope 
of  bright  w^eather,  the  first  for  me  since  the  end  of  May,  wdien 
I had  two  fine  days  at  Aylesbury  ; the  third,  May  28th,  being 
black  again  from  morning  to  evening.  There  seems  to  be 
some  reference  to  the  blackness  caused  by  the  prevalence  of 
this  wind  in  the  old  French  name  of  Bise,  ‘ grey  wind  ’ ; and, 
indeed,  one  of  the  darkest  and  bitterest  days  of  it  I ever  saw 
was  at  Vevay  in  1872.” 


The  first  time  I recognised  the  clouds  brought  by  the 
plague- wind  as  distinct  in  character  was  in  walking  back  from 


THE  NINETEENTH  CENTURY. 


08  5 


Oxford,  after  a hard  day's  work,  to  Abingdon,  in  the  early 
spring  of  1871 : it  would  take  too  long  to  give  you  any  ac- 
count this  evening  of  the  particulars  which  drew  my  atten- 
tion to  them  ; but  during  the  following  months  I had  too 
frequent  opportunities  of  verifying  my  first  thoughts  of  them, 
and  on  the  first  of  July  in  that  year  wrote  the  descrip- 
tion of  them  which  begins  the  ‘ Fors  Clavigera  5 of  August, 
thus : — 

“It  is  the  first  of  July,  and  I sit  down  to  write  by  the  dis- 
mallest  light  that  ever  yet  I wrote  by  ; namely,  the  light  of 
this  mid-summer  morning,  in  mid-England  (Matlock,  Derby- 
shire), in  the  year  1871. 

“For  the  sky  is  covered  with  grey  clouds  ; — not  rain-cloud, 
but  a dry  black  veil,  which  no  ray  of  sunshine  can  pierce ; 
partly  diffused  in  mist,  feeble  mist,  enough  to  make  distant 
objects  unintelligible,  yet  without  any  substance,  or  wreath- 
ing, or  colour  of  its  own.  And  everywhere  the  leaves  of  the 
trees  are  shaking  fitfully,  a3  they  do  before  a thunderstorm  ; 
only  not  violently,  but  enough  to  show  the  passing  to  and  fro 
of  a strange,  bitter,  blighting  wind.  Dismal  enough,  had  it 
been  the  first  morning  of  its  kind  that  summer  had  sent. 
But  during  all  this  spring,  in  London,  and  at  Oxford,  through 
meagre  March,  through  changelessly  sullen  April,  through 
despondent  May,  and  darkened  June,  morning  after  morning 
has  come  grey-shrouded  thus. 

“And  it  is  a new  thing  to  me,  and  a very  dreadful  one.  I 
am  fifty  years  old,  and  more  ; and  since  I was  five,  have 
gleaned  the  best  hours  of  my  life  in  the  sun  of  spring 
and  summer  mornings  ; and  I never  saw  such  as  these,  till 
now. 

“ And  the  scientific  men  are  busy  as  ants,  examining  the  sun, 
and  the  moon,  and  the  seven  stars,  and  can  tell  me  all  about 
them , I believe,  by  this  time  ; and  how  they  move,  and  what 
they  are  made  of. 

“And  I do  not  care,  for  my  part,  two  copper  spangles  how 
they  move,  nor  what  they  are  made  of.  I can’t  move  them 
any  other  way  than  they  go,  nor  make  them  of  anything  else, 
better  than  they  are  made.  But  I would  care  much  and  give 


386 


THE  STORM-CLOUD  OF 


much,  if  I could  be  told  where  this  bitter  wind  comes  from, 
and  what  it  is  made  of. 

“For,  perhaps, with  forethought,  and  fine  laboratory  science, 
one  might  make  it  of  something  else. 

“It  looks  partly  as  if  it  were  made  of  poisonous  smoke: 
very  possibly  it  may  be  : there  are  at  least  two  hundred  fur- 
nace chimneys  in  a square  of  two  miles  on  every  side  of  me. 
But  mere  smoke  would  not  blow  to  and  fro  in  that  wild  way. 
It  looks  more  to  me  as  if  it  were  made  of  dead  men’s  souls — 
such  of  them  as  are  not  gone  yet  where  they  have  to  go,  and 
may  be  flitting  hither  and  thither,  doubting,  themselves,  of 
the  fittest  place  for  them. 

“You  know,  if  there  are  such  things  as  souls,  and  if  ever  any 
of  them  haunt  places  where  they  Lave  been  hurt,  there  must 
be  many  about  us,  just  now,  displeased  enough  ! ” 

The  last  sentence  refers  of  course  to  the  battles  of  the 
Franco-German  campaign,  which  was  especially  horrible  to 
me,  in  its  digging,  as  the  Germans  should  have  known,  a 
moat  flooded  with  waters  of  death  between  the  two  nations 
for  a century  to  come. 

Since  that  Midsummer  day,  my  attention,  however  other- 
wise occupied,  has  never  relaxed  in  its  record  of  the  phe- 
nomena characteristic  of  the  plague-wind ; and  I now  define 
for  you,  as  briefly  as  possible,  the  essential  signs  of  it. 

1.  It  is  a wind  of  darkness, — all  the  former  conditions  of 
tormenting  winds,  whether  from  the  north  or  east,  were  more 
or  less  capable  of  co-existing  with  sunlight,  and  often  with 
steady  and  bright  sunlight ; but  wiienever,  and  wiierever  the 
plague-wind  blows,  be  it  but  for  ten  minutes,  the  sky  is  dark- 
ened instantly. 

2.  It  is  a malignant  quality  of  wind,  unconnected  with  any 
one  quarter  of  the  compass  ; it  blowrs  indifferently  from  all, 
attaching  its  own  bitterness  and  malice  to  the. worst  characters 
of  the  proper  winds  of  each  quarter.  It  will  blow  either  with 
drenching  rain,  or  dry  rage,  from  the  south, — with  ruinous 
blasts  from  the  west, — with  bitterest  chills  from  the  north, — 
and  with  venomous  blight  from  the  east. 

Its  own  favourite  quarter,  however,  is  the  south-west,  so 


THE  NINETEENTH  CENTURY. 


38? 

that  it  is  distinguished  in  its  malignity  equally  from  the  Bise 
of  Provence,  which  is  a north  wind  always,  and  from  our  own 
old  friend,  the  east. 

3.  It  always  blows  tremulously,  making  the  leaves  of  the 
trees  shudder  as  if  they  were  all  aspens,  but  with  a peculiar 
fitfulness  which  gives  them — and  I watch  them  this  moment 
as  I write — an  expression  of  anger  as  well  as  of  fear  and  dis- 
tress. You  may  see  the  kind  of  quivering,  and  hear  the  omi- 
nous whimpering,  in  the  gusts  that  precede  a great  thunder- 
storm ; but  plague-wind  is  more  panic-struck,  and  feverish  ; 
and  its  sound  is  a hiss  instead  of  a wail. 

When  I was  last  at  Avallon,  in  South  France,  I went  to  see 
‘Faust’  played  at  the  little  country  theatre:  it  was  done 
with  scarcely  any  means  of  pictorial  effect,  except  a few  old  cur- 
tains, and  a blue  light  or  two.  But  tlie  night  on  the  Brocken 
was  nevertheless  extremely  appalling  to  me, — a strange  ghast- 
liness being  obtained  in  some  of  the  witch  scenes  merely  by 
fine  management  of  gesture  and  drapery  ; and  in  the  phantom 
scenes,  by  the  lialf-palsied,  half-furious,  faltering  or  fluttering 
past  of  phantoms  stumbling  as  into  graves  ; as  if  of  not  only 
soulless,  but  senseless,  Dead,  moving  with  the  very  action,  the 
rage,  the  decrepitude,  and  the  trembling  of  the  plague-wind. 

4.  Not  only  tremulous  at  every  moment,  it  is  also  intermit- 
tent with  a rapidity  quite  unexampled  in  former  weather. 
There  are,  indeed,  days — and  weeks,  on  which  it  blows  with- 
out cessation,  and  is  as  inevitable  as  the  Gulf  Stream ; but 
also  there  are  days  when  it  is  contending  with  healthy 
weather,  and  on  such  days  it  will  remit  for  half  an  hour,  and 
the  sun  will  begin  to  show  itself,  and  then  the  wind  will  come 
back  and  cover  the  whole  sky  with  clouds  in  ten  minutes ; 
and  so  on,  every  half-hour,  through  the  whole  day  ; so  that  it 
is  often  impossible  to  go  on  with  any  kind  of  drawing  in  col- 
our, the  light  being  never  for  two  seconds  the  same  from 
morning  till  evening. 

5.  It  degrades,  while  it  intensifies,  ordinary  storm  ; but  be- 
fore I read  you  any  description  of  its  efforts  in  this  kind,  I 
must  correct  an  impression  which  has  got  abroad  through  the 
papers,  that  I speak  as  if  the  plague-wind  blew  now  always* 


388 


TEE  STORM-CLOUD  OF 


and  there  were  no  more  any  natural  weather.  On  the  con* 
trary,  the  winter  of  1878-9  was  one  of  the  most  healthy  and 
lovely  I ever  saw  ice  in  ; — Coniston  lake  shone  under  the  calm 
clear  frost  in  one  marble  field,  as  strong  as  the  floor  of  Milan 
Cathedral,  half  a mile  across  and  four  miles  down  ; and  the 
first  entries  in  my  diary  which  I read  you  shall  be  from  the 
22d  to  26tli  June,  1876,  of  perfectly  lovely  and  natural 
weather. 

“ Sunday,  25tli  June,  1876. 

“ Yesterday,  an  entirely  glorious  sunset,  unmatched  in 
beauty  since  that  at  Abbeville, — deep  scarlet,  and  purest  rose, 
on  purple  grey,  in  bars  ; and  stationary,  plumy,  sweeping  fila- 
ments above  in  upper  sky,  like  ‘ using  up  the  brush,’  said 
Joanie  ; remaining  in  glory,  every  moment  best,  changing 
from  one  good  into  another,  (but  only  in  colour  or  light — -form 
steady,)  for  half  an  hour  full,  and  the  clouds  afterwards  fading 
into  the  grey  against  amber  twilight,  stationary  in  the  same 
form  for  about  two  hours,  at  least.  The  darkening  rose  tint 
remained  till  half-past  ten,  the  grand  time  being  at  nine. 

“ The  day  had  been  fine, — exquisite  green  light  on  afternoon 
hills. 

“ Monday,  26tli  June,  1876. 

“ Yesterday  an  entirely  perfect  summer  light  on  the  Old 
Man  ; Lancaster  Bay  all  clear  ; Ingleborougli  and  the  great 
Pennine  fault  as  on  a map.  Divine  beauty  of  western  colour 
on  thyme  and  rose, — then  twilight  of  clearest  warm  amber  far 
into  night,  of  pale  amber  all  night  long  ; hills  dark-clear 
against  it. 

“And  so  it  continued,  only  growing  more  intense  in  blue  and 
sunlight,  all  day.  After  breakfast,  I came  in  from  the  well 
under  strawberry  bed,  to  say  I had  never  seen  anything 
like  it,  so  pure  or  intense,  in  Italy  ; and  so  it  went  glowing 
on,  cloudless,  with  soft  north  wind,  all  day. 

“ 16th  July. 

“ The  sunset  almost  too  bright  through  the  blinds  for  me  to 
read  Humboldt  at  tea  by, — finally,  new  moon  like  a lime-light, 
reflected  on  breeze-struck  water ; traces,  across  dark  calm,  of 
reflected  hills.” 

These  extracts  are,  I hope,  enough  to  guard  you  against  the 
absurdity  of  supposing  that  it  all  only  means  that  I am  myself 
soured,  or  doting,  in  my  old  age,  and  always  in  an  ill  humour, 


THE  NINETEENTH  CENTURY. 


389 


Depend  upon  it,  when  old  men  are  worth  anything,  they  are 
better  humoured  than  young  ones  : and  have  learned  to  see 
what  good  there  is,  and  pleasantness,  in  the  world  they  are 
likely  so  soon  to  have  orders  to  quit. 

Now  then — take  the  following  sequences  of  accurate  descrip- 
tion of  thunderstorm,  with  plague-wind. 

“ 22nd  June,  1876. 

“Thunderstorm';  pitch  dark,  with  no  blackness, — but  deep, 
high,  filthiness  of  lurid,  yet  not  sublimely  lurid,  smoke-cloud  ; 
dense  manufacturing  mist ; fearful  squalls  of  shivery  wind, 
making  Mr.  Severn’s  sail  quiver  like  a man  in  a fever  fit — all 
about  four,  afternoon — but  only  two  or  three  claps  of  thunder, 
and  feeble,  though  near,  flashes.  I never  saw  such  a dirty, 
weak,  foul  storm.  It  cleared  suddenly,  after  raining  all  after- 
noon, at  half-past  eight  to  nine,  into  pure,  natural  weather, — 
jow  rain-clouds  on  quite  clear,  green,  wet  hills. 

“Brantwood,  lotli  August,  1879. 

“ The  most  terrific  and  horrible  thunderstorm,  this  morn- 
ing, I ever  remember.  It  waked  me  at  six,  or  a little  before 
—then  rolling  incessantly,  like  railway  luggage  trains,  quite 
ghastly  in  its  mockery  of  them — the  air  one  loathsome  mass  of 
sultry  and  foul  fog,  like  smoke  ; scarcely  raining  at  all,  but 
increasing  to  heavier  rollings,  with  flashes  quivering  vaguely 
through  all  the  air,  and  at  last  terrific  double  streams  of  red- 
dish-violet fire,  not  forked  or  zigzag,  but  rippled  rivulets — - 
two  at  the  same  instant  some  twenty  to  thirty  degrees  apart, 
and  lasting  on  the  eye  at  least  half  a second,  with  grand  artil- 
lery-peals following  ; not  rattling  crashes,  or  irregular  crack- 
lings, but  delivered  volleys.  It  lasted  an  hour,  then  passed 
off,  clearing  a little,  without  rain  to  speak  of, — not  a glimpse 
of  blue, — and  now,  half-past  seven,  seems  settling  down  again 
into  Manchester  devil’s  darkness. 

“Quarter  to  eight,  morning. — Thunder  returned,  all  the  air 
collapsed  into  one  black  fog,  the  hills  invisible,  and  scarcely 
visible  the  opposite  shore  ; heavy  rain  in  short  fits,  and  fre- 
quent, though  less  formidable,  flashes,  and  shorter  thunder. 
While  I have  written  this  sentence  the  cloud  has  again  dis- 
solved itself,  like  a nasty  solution  in  a bottle,  with  miraculous 
and  unnatural  rapidity,  and  the  hills  are  in  sight  again ; a 
double-forked  flash — rippled,  I mean,  like  the  others — starts 
into  its  frightful  ladder  of  light  between  me  and  Wetherlam, 


390 


THE  STORM-CLOUD  OF 


as  I raise  my  eyes.  All  black  above,  a rugged  spray  cloud  on 
the  Eaglet.  (The  4 Eaglet  ’ is  my  own  name  for  the  bold  and 
elevated  crag  to  the  west  of  the  little  lake  above  Coniston 
mines.  It  had  no  name  among  the  country  people,  and  is  one 
of  the  most  conspicuous  features  of  the  mountain  chain,  as 
seen  from  Brantwood.) 

“ Half-past  eight. — Three  times  light  and  three  times  dark 
since  last  I wrote,  and  the  darkness  seeming  each  time  as  it 
settles  more  loathsome,  at  last  stopping  my  reading  in  mere 
blindness.  One  lurid  gleam  of  white  cumulus  in  upper  lead- 
blue  sky,  seen  for  half  a minute  through  the  sulphurous 
chimney-pot  vomit  of  blackguardly  cloud  beneath,  where  its 
rags  were  thinnest. 

“Thursday,  22nd  Feb.,  1883. 

“ Yesterday  a fearfully  dark  mist  all  afternoon,  with  steady, 
south  plague-wind  of  the  bitterest,  nastiest,  poisonous  blight, 
and  fretful  flutter.  I could  scarcely  stay  in  the  wood  for  the 
horror  of  it.  To-day,  really  rather  blight  blue,  and  bright 
semi-cumuli,  with  the  frantic  Old  Man  blowing  sheaves  of  lan- 
cets and  chisels  across  the  lake — not  in  strength  enough,  or 
whirl  enough,  to  raise  it  in  spray,  but  tracing  every  squall’s 
outline  in  black  on  the  silver  grey  waves,  and  whistling  meanly, 
and  as  if  on  a flute  made  of  a file. 

“ Sunday,  17tli  August,  1879. 

“Raining  in  foul  drizzle,  slow  and  steady  ; sky  pitch-dark, 
and  I just  get  a little  light  by  sitting  in  the  bow-window  ; dia- 
bolic clouds  over  everything : and  looking  over  my  kitchen 
garden  yesterday,  I found  it  one  miserable  mass  of  weeds  gone 
to  seed,  the  roses  in  the  higher  garden  putrefied  into  brown 
sponges,  feeling  like  dead  snails  ; and  the  half-ripe  strawber- 
ries all  rotten  at  the  stalks.” 

G.  And  now  I come  to  the  most  important  sign  of  the 
plague-wind  and  the  plague-cloud  : that  in  bringing  on  their 
peculiar  darkness,  they  blanch  the  sun  instead  of  reddening 
it.  And  here  I must  note  briefly  to  you  the  uselessness  of  ob- 
servation by  instruments,  or  machines,  instead  of  eyes.  In 
the  first  year  when  I had  begun  to  notice  the  specialty  of  the 
plague-wind,  I went  of  course  to  the  Oxford  observatory  to 
consult  its  registrars.  They  have  their  anemometer  always  on 
the  twirl,  and  can  tell  you  the  force,  or  at  least  the  pace,  of  a 


THE  NINETEENTH  CENTURY. 


391 


gale,19  by  day  or  night.  But  the  anemometer  can  only  record 
for  you  how  often  it  has  been  driven  round,  not  at  all  whether 
it  went  round  steadily , or  went  round  trembling.  And  on  that 
point  depends  the  entire  question  whether  it  is  a plague  breeze 
or  a healthy  one  : and  what’s  the  use  of  telling  you  whether 
the  wind’s  strong  or  not,  when  it  can’t  tell  you  whether  it’s  a 
strong  medicine,  or  a strong  poison  ? 

But  again — you  have  your  sun-measure,  and  can  tell  ex- 
actly at  any  moment  how  strong,  or  how  weak,  or  how  want- 
ing, the  sun  is.  Bat  the  sun-measurer  can’t  tell  you  whether 
the  rays  are  stopped  by  a dense  shallow  cloud,  or  a thin  deep 
one.  In  healthy  weather,  the  sun  is  hidden  behind  a cloud, 
as  it  is  behind  a tree  ; and,  when  the  cloud  is  past,  it  comes 
out  again,  as  bright  as  before.  But  in  plague-wind,  the  sun  is 
choked  out  of  the  whole  heaven,  all  day  long,  by  a cloud 
which  may  be  a thousand  miles  square  and  five  miles  deep. 

And  yet  observe  : that  thin,  scraggy,  filthy,  mangy,  miser- 
able cloud,  for  all  the  depth  of  it,  can’t  turn  the  sun  red,  as  a 
good,  business-like  fog  does  with  a hundred  feet  or  so  of  it- 
self. By  the  plague-wind  every  breath  of  air  you  draw  is 
polluted,  half  round  the  world  ; in  a London  fog  the  air  itself 
is  pure,  though  you  choose  to  mix  up  dirt  with  it,  and  choke 
yourself  with  your  own  nastiness. 

Now  I’m  going  to  show  you  a diagram  of  a sunset  in  en- 
tirely pure  weather,  above  London  smoke.  I.  saw  it  and 
sketched  it  from  my  old  post  of  observation — the  top  garret 
of  my  father’s  house  at  Herne  Hill.  There,  when  the  wind  is 
south,  we  are  outside  of  the  smoke  and  above  it ; and  this  dia- 
gram, admirably  enlarged  from  my  own  drawing  by  my,  now 
in  all  things  best  aide-de-camp,  Mr.  Collingwood,  shows  you 
an  old-fashioned  sunset — the  sort  of  thing  Turner  and  I used  to 
have  to  look  at, — (nobody  else  ever  would)  constantly.  Every 
sunset  and  every  dawn,  in  fine  weather,  had  something  of  the 
sort  to  show  us.  This  is  one  of  the  last  pure  sunsets  I ever 
saw,  about  the  year  1876, — and  the  point  I want  you  to  note 
in  it  is,  that  the  air  being  pure,  the  smoke  on  the  horizon, 
though  at  last  it  hides  the  sun,  yet  hides  it  through  gold  and 
vermilion.  Now,  don’t  go  away  fancying  there’s  any  exagger* 
3 


392 


THE  STORM-CLOUD  OF 


ation  in  that  study.  The  prismatic  colours,  I told  you,  were 
simply  impossible  to  paint ; these,  which  are  transmitted  col- 
ours, can  indeed  be  suggested,  but  no  more.  The  brightest 
pigment  we  have  would  look  dim  beside  the  truth. 

I should  have  liked  to  have  blotted  down  for  you  a bit  of 
plague-cloud  to  put  beside  this  ; but  Heaven  knows,  you  can 
see  enough  of  it  nowadays  without  any  trouble  of  mine  ; and 
if  you  want,  in  a hurry,  to  see  what  the  sun  looks  like  through 
it,  you’ve  only  to  throw  a bad  half-crown  into  a basin  of  soap 
and  water. 

Blanched  Sun, — blighted  grass, — blinded  man. — If,  in  con- 
clusion, you  ask  me  for  any  conceivable  cause  or  meaning  of 
these  things — I can  tell  you  none,  according  to  your  modern 
beliefs  ; but  I can  tell  you  what  meaning  it  would  have  borne 
to  the  men  of  old  time.  Bemember,  for  the  last  twenty  years, 
England,  and  all  foreign  nations,  either  tempting  her,  or  fol- 
lowing her,  have  blasphemed  the  name  of  God  deliberately 
and  openly  ; and  have  done  iniquity  by  proclamation,  every 
man  doing  as  much  injustice  to  his  brother  as  it  is  in  his 
power  to  do.  Of  states  in  such  moral  gloom  every  seer  of 
old  predicted  the  physical  gloom,  saying,  “ The  light  shall  be 
darkened  in  the  heavens  thereof,  and  the  stars  shall  withdraw 
their  shining.”  All  Greek,  all  Christian,  all  Jewish  prophecy 
insists  on  the  same  truth  through  a thousand  myths  ; but  of 
all  the  chief,  to  former  thought,  was  the  fable  of  the  Jewish 
warrior  and  prophet,  for  whom  the  sun  hasted  not  to  go 
down,  with  -which  I leave  you  to  compare  at  leisure  the  physi- 
cal result  of  your  owTn  wars  and  prophecies,  as  declared  by 
your  own  elect  journal  not  fourteen  days  ago, — that  the  Em- 
pire of  England,  on  -which  formerly  the  sun  never  set,  has  be- 
come one  on  which  he  never  rises. 

What  is  best  to  be  done,  do  you  ask  me  ? The  answer  is 
plain.  Whether  you  can  affect  the  signs  of  the  sky  or  not, 
you  can  the  signs  of  the  times.  Whether  you  can  bring  the 
sun  back  or  not,  you  can  assuredly  bring  back  your  own 
cheerfulness,  and  your  own  honesty.  You  may  not  be  able  to 
say  to  the  winds,  “Peace  ; be  still,”  but  you  can  cease  from 
the  insolence  of  your  own  lips,  and  the  troubling  of  your  own 


THE  NINETEENTH  CENTURY. 


393 


passions.  And  all  that  it  would  be  extremely  well  to  do,  even 
though  the  day  were  coining  when  the  sun  should  be  as  dark- 
ness, and  the  moon  as  blood.  But,  the  paths  of  rectitude  and 
piety  once  regained,  who  shall  say  that  the  promise  of  old 
time  would  not  be  found  to  hold  for  us  also  ? — “ Bring  ye  all 
the  tithes  into  my  storehouse,  and  prove  me  now  herewith, 
saith  the  Lord  God,  if  I will  not  open  you  the  windows  of 
heaven,  and  pour  you  out  a blessing,  that  there  shall  not  be 
room  enough  to  receive  it.” 


LECTURE  IX. 

March  11th,  1884 

It  was  impossible  for  me,  this  spring,  to  prepare,  as  I wished 
to  have  done,  two  lectures  for  the  London  Institution  : but 
finding,  its  members  more  interested  in  the  subject  chosen 
than  I had  anticipated,  I enlarged  my  lecture  at  its  second 
reading  by  some  explanations  and  parentheses,  partly  repre- 
sented, and  partly  farther  developed,  in  the  following  notes  ; 
which  led  me  on,  however,  as  I arranged  them,  into  branches 
of  the  subject  untouched  in  the  former  lecture,  and  it  seems 
to  me  of  no  inferior  interest. 

1.  The  vapour  over  the  pool  of  Anger  in  the  ‘ Inferno/  the 
clogging  stench  which  rises  from  Caina,  and  the  fog  of  the 
circle  of  Anger  in  the  ‘ Purgatorio  ’ resemble,  indeed,  the  cloud 
of  the  Plague-wind  very  closely, — but  are  conceived  only  as 
supernatural.  The  reader  will  no  doubt  observe,  throughout 
the  following  lecture,  my  own  habit  of  speaking  of  beautiful 
things  as  ‘natural,’  and  of  ugly  ones  as  ‘unnatural.’  In  the 
conception  of  recent  philosophy,  the  world  is  one  Kosmos  in 
which  diphtheria  is  held  to  be  as  natural  as  song,  and  cholera 
as  digestion.  To  my  own  mind,  and  the  more  distinctly  the 
more  I see,  know,  and  feel,  the  Earth,  as  prepared  for  the 
abode  of  man,  appears  distinctly  ruled  by  agencies  of  health 
and  disease,  of  which  the  first  may  be  aided  by  his  industry, 
prudence,  and  piety  ; while  the  destroying  laws  are  allowed  to 


THE  ST  OHM- CLOUD  OF 


394 

prevail  against  him,  in  the  degree  in  which  he  allows  himself 
in  idleness,  folly,  and  vice.  Had  the  point  been  distinctly  in- 
dicated where  the  degrees  of  adversity  necessary  for  his  dis- 
cipline pass  into  those  intended  for  his  punishment,  the  world 
would  have  been  put  under  a manifest  theocracy  ; but  the 
declaration  of  the  principle  is  at  least  distinct  enough  to  have 
convinced  all  sensitive  and  earnest  persons,  from  the  begin- 
ning of  speculation  in  the  eyes  and  mind  of  Man  : and  it  has 
been  put  in  my  power  by  one  of  the  singular  chances  which 
have  always  helped  me  in  my  work  when  it  was  in  the  right 
direction,  to  present  to  the  University  of  Oxford  the  most  dis- 
tinct expression  of  this  first  principle  of  mediaeval  Theology 
which,  so  far  as  I know,  exists  in  fifteenth-century  art.  It  is 
one  of  the  drawings  of  the  Florentine  book  which  I bought 
for  a thousand  pounds,  against  the  British  Museum,  some  ten 
or  twelve  years  since  ; being  a compendium  of  classic  and 
mediaeval  religious  symbolism.  In  the  two  pages  of  it,  form- 
ing one  picture,  given  to  Oxford,  the  delivery  of  the  Law  on 
Sinai  is  represented  on  the  left  hand,  ( contrary  to  the  Script- 
ural narrative , but  in  deeper  expression  of  the  benediction  of 
the  Sacred  Law  to  all  nations,)  as  in  the  midst  of  bright  and 
calm  light,  the  figure  of  the  Deity  being  supported  by  lumi- 
nous and  level  clouds,  and  attended  by  happy  angels  : whilo 
opposite,  on  the  right  hand,  the  worship  of  the  Golden  Calf  is 
symbolized  by  a single  decorated  pillar,  with  the  calf  on  its 
summit,  surrounded  by  the  clouds  and  darkness  of  a furious 
storm,  issuing  from  the  mouths  of  fiends; — uprooting  the 
trees,  and  throwing  down  the  rocks,  above  the  broken  tables 
of  the  Law,  of  which  the  fragments  lie  in  the  foreground. 

2.  These  conditions  are  mainly  in  the  arrangement  of  the 
lower  rain-clouds  in  flakes  thin  and  detached  enough  to  be  il- 
luminated by  early  or  late  sunbeams  : their  textures  are  then 
more  softly  blended  than  those  of  the  upper  cirri,  and  have 
the  qualities  of  painted,  instead  of  burnished  or  inflamed,  col- 
our. 

They  were  thus  described  in  the  4th  chapter  of  the  7th 
part  of  ‘ Modern  Painters  ’ : — 

“ Often  in  our  English  mornings,  the  rain-clouds  in  the 


THE  NINETEENTH  CENTURY. 


dawn  form  soft  level  fields,  which  melt  imperceptibly  into  the 
blue  ; or  when  of  less  extent,  gather  into  apparent  bars,  cross- 
ing the  sheets  of  broader  cloud  above  ; and  all  these  bathed 
throughout  in  an  unspeakable  light  of  pure  rose-colour,  and 
purple,  and  amber,  and  blue,  not  shining,  but  misty-soft,  the 
barred  masses,  when  seen  nearer,  found  to  be  woven  in  tresses 
of  cloud,  like  floss  silk,  looking  as  if  each  knot  were  a little 
swathe  or  sheaf  of  lighted  rain. 

No  clouds  form  such  skies,  none  are  so  tender,  various,  in- 
imitable ; Turner  himself  never  caught  them.  Correggio, 
putting  out  his  whole  strength,  could  have  painted  them, — * 
no  other  man.” 

3.  I did  not,  in  writing  this  sentence,  forget  Mr.  Gladstone’s 
finely  scholastic  enthusiasm  for  Homer  ; nor  Mr.  Newton’s 
for  Athenian — (I  wish  it  had  not  been  also  for  Halicarnassian) 
sculpture.  But  Byron  loved  Greece  herself — through  her 
death— and  io  liis  own  ; while  the  subsequent  refusal  of  Eng- 
land to  give  Greece  one  of  our  own  princes  for  a king,  has  al- 
ways been  held  by  me  the  most  ignoble,  cowardly,  and  lam- 
entable, of  all  our  base  commercial  impolicies: 

4.  ‘ Deepening  ’ clouds.— Byron  never  uses  an  epithet  vainly, 
— lie  is  the  most  accurate,  and  therefore  the  most  powerful, 
of  all  modern  describers.  The  deepening  of  the  cloud  is  essen- 
tially necessary  to  the  redness  of  the  orb.  Ordinary  observers 
are  continually  unaware  of  this  fact,  and  imagine  that  a red 
sun  can  be  darker  than  the  sky  round  it ! Thus  Mr.  Gould, 
though  a professed  naturalist,  and  passing  most  of  his  life  in 
the  open  air,  over  and  over  again,  in  his  ‘ British  Birds,’  draws 
the  setting  sun  dark  on  the  sky  ! 

5.  ‘ Like  the  blood  he  predicts.’ — The  astrological  power  of 
the  planet  Mars  was  of  course  ascribed  to  it  in  the  same  con- 
nection with  its  red  colour.  The  reader  may  be  interested  to 
see  the  notice,  in  ‘Modern  Painters,’  of  Turner’s  constant  use 
of  the  same  symbol ; partly  an  expression  of  his  own  personal 
feeling,  partly  the  employment  of  a symbolic  language  known 
to  all  careful  readers  of  solar  and  stellar  tradition. 

“ He  was  very  definitely  in  the  habit  of  indicating  the  asso- 
ciation of  any  subject  with  circumstances  of  death,  especially 


39G 


THE  STORM-CLOUD  OF 


the  death  of  multitudes,  by  placing  it  under  one  of  his  most 
deeply  crimsoned  sunset  skies. 

The  colour  of  blood  is  thus  plainly  taken  for  the  leading  tone 
in  the  storm-clouds  above  the  ‘ Slave-ship.’  It  occurs  with 
similar  distinctness  in  the  much  earlier  picture  of  ‘ Ulysses 
and  Pofypheme,’  in  that  of  ‘ Napoleon  at  St.  Helena,’  and. 
subdued  by  softer  hues,  in  the  ‘Old  Temeraire.’ 

The  sky  of  this  Goldau  is,  in  its  scarlet  and  crimson,  the 
deepest  in  tone  of  all  that  I know  in  Turner’s  drawings. 

Another  feeling,  traceable  in  several  of  his  former  works, 
is  an  acute  sense  of  the  contrast  between  the  careless  interests 
and  idle  pleasures  of  daily  life,  and  the  state  of  those  whose 
time  for  labour,  or  knowledge,  or  delight,  is  passed  for  ever. 
There  is  evidence  of  this  feeling  in  the  introduction  of  the 
boys  at  play  in  the  churchyard  of  Kirkby  Lonsdale,  and  the 
boy  climbing  for  his  kite  among  the  thickets  above  the  little 
mountain  churchyard  of  Brignal-banks  ; it  is  in  the  same 
tone  of  thought  that  he  has  placed  here  the  twro  figures  fish- 
ing, leaning  against  these  shattered  flanks  of  rock, — the  se- 
pulchral stones  of  the  great  mountain  Field  of  Heath.” 

6.  ‘Tliy  lore  unto  calamity.’— It  is,  I believe,  recognised  by 
all  who  have  in  any  degree  become  interested  in  the  tradi- 
tions of  Chaldean  astrology,  that  its  warnings  were  distinct, 
— its  promises  deceitful.  Horace  thus  warns  Leuconoe  against 
reading  the  Babylonian  numbers  to  learn  the  time  of  her 
death, — he  does  not  imply  their  promise  of  previous  happi- 
ness ; and  the  continually  deceptive  character  of  the  Delphic 
oracle  itself,  tempted  always  rather  to  fatal  than  to  fortunate 
conduct,  unless  the  inquirer  were  more  than  wise  in  his  read- 
ing. Byron  gathers  into  the  bitter  question  all  the  sorrow  of 
former  superstition,  while  in  the  lines  italicized,  just  above, 
he  sums  in  the  briefest  and  plainest  English,  all  that  we  yet 
know,  or  may  wisely  think,  about  the  Sun.  It  is  the  ‘ Burn - 
ing  oracle  ’ (other  oracles  there  are  by  sound,  or  feeling,  but 
this  by  fire)  of  all  that  live  ; the  only  means  of  our  accurate 
knowledge  of  the  things  round  us,  and  that  affect  our  lives : 
it  is  the  fountain  of  all  life, — Byron  does  not  say  the  origin ; — 
the  origin  of  life  would  be  the  origin  of  the  sun  itself  ; but  it  ia 


THE  NINETEENTH  CENTURY. 


397 


the  visible  source  of  vital  energy,  as  the  spring  is  of  a stream, 
though  the  origin  is  the  sea.  “ And  symbol  of  Him  who  be- 
stows it.” — This  the  sun  has  always  been,  to  every  one  who 
believes  there  is  a bestower ; and  a symbol  so  perfect  and 
beautiful  that  it  may  also  be  thought  of  as  partly  an  apoca- 
lypse. 

7.  ‘More  beautiful  in  that  variety.’ — This  line,  with  the  one 
italicized  beneath,  expresses  in  Myrrlia’s  mind,  the  feeling 
which  I said,  in  the  outset,  every  thoughtful  watcher  of  heaven 
necessarily  had  in  those  old  days  ; wdiereas  now,  the  variety 
is  for  the  most  part,  only  in  modes  of  disagreeableness  ; and 
the  vapour,  instead  of  adding  light  to  the  unclouded  sky, 
takes  away  the  aspect  and  destroys  the  functions  of  sky  al- 
together. 

8.  ‘Steamout  of  an  engine  funnel.’ — Compare  the  sixth 
paragraph  of  Professor  Tyndall’s  ‘ Forms  of  Water,’  and  the 
following  seventh  one,  in  which  the  phenomenon  of  transpar- 
ent steam  becoming  opaque  is  thus  explained.  “Every  bit 
of  steam  shrinks,  when  chilled,  to  a much  more  minute  parti- 
cle of  water.  The  liquid  particles  thus  produced  form  a kind 
of  water  dust  of  exceeding  fineness,  which  floats  in  the  air, 
and  is  called  a cloud.” 

But  the  author  does  not  tell  us,  in  the  first  place,  what  is 
the  shape  or  nature  of  a ‘ bit  of  steam,’  nor,  in  the  second 
place,  how  the  contraction  of  the  individual  bits  of  steam  is 
effected  without  any  diminution  of  the  whole  mass  of  them, 
but  on  the  contrary,  during  its  steady  expansion  ; in  the  third 
place  he  assumes  that  the  particles  of  water  dust  are  solid, 
not  vesicular,  which  is  not  yet  ascertained  ; in  the  fourth  place, 
he  does  not  tell  us  how  their  number  and  size  are  related  to 
the  quantity  of  invisible  moisture  in  the  air ; in  the  fifth  place, 
he  does  not  tell  us  how  cool  invisible  moisture  differs  from  hot 
in  viable  moisture  ; and  in  the  sixth,  he  does  not  tell  us  why 
the  cool  visible  moisture  stays  while  the  hot  visible  moisture 
melts  away.  So  much  for  the  present  state  of  ‘ scientific  ’ in- 
formation, or  at  least  communicativeness,  on  the  first  and  sim- 
plest conditions  of  the  problem  before  us  ! 

In  its  wider  range  that  problem  embraces  the  total  mystery 


398 


THE  STORM-CLOUD  OF 


of  volatile  power  in  substance  ; and  of  the  visible  states  con- 
sequent on  sudden — and  presumably,  therefore,  imperfect — 
vaporization  ; as  the  smoke  of  frankincense,  or  the  sacred 
fume  of  modern  devotion  which  now  fills  the  inhabited  world, 
as  that  of  the  rose  and  violet  its  deserts.  AYhat, — it  would  be 
useful  to  know,  is  the  actual  bulk  of  an  atom  of  orange  per- 
fume ? — what  of  one  of  vaporized  tobacco,  or  gunpowder  ? — 
and  where  do  these  artificial  vapours  fall  back  in  beneficent 
rain  ? or  through  what  areas  of  atmosphere  exist,  as  invisible, 
though  perhaps  not  innocuous,  cloud  ? 

All  these  questions  were  put,  closely  and  precisely,  four- 
and-twenty  years  ago,  in  the  1st  chapter  of  the  7tli  part  of 
‘Modern  Painters,’  paragraphs  4 to  9,  of  which  I can  here 
allow  space  only  for  the  last,  wrhich  expresses  the  final  diffi- 
culties of  the  matter  better  than  anything  said  in  this  lect- 
ure : — 

“ But  farther  : these  questions  of  volatility,  and  visibility, 
and  hue,  are  all  complicated  with  those  of  shape.  How  is  a 
cloud  outlined  ? Granted  whatever  you  choose  to  ask,  con- 
cerning its  material,  or  its  aspect,  its  loftiness  and  luminous- 
ness,— how  of  its  limitation  ? What  hews  it  into  a heap,  or 
spins  it  into  a web  ? Cold  is  usually  shapeless,  I suppose, 
extending  over  large  spaces  equally,  or  with  gradual  diminu- 
tion. You  cannot  have  in  the  open  air,  angles,  and  wedges, 
and  coils,  and  cliffs,  of  cold.  Yet  the  vapour  stops  suddenly, 
sharp  and  steep  as  a rock,  or  thrusts  itself  across  the  gates  of 
heaven  in  likeness  of  a brazen  bar  ; or  braids  itself  in  and  out, 
and  across  and  across,  like  a tissue  of  tapestry  ; or  falls  into 
ripples,  like  sand  ; or  into  waving  shreds  and  tongues,  as  fire. 
On  what  anvils  and  wheels  is  the  vapour  pointed,  twisted, 
hammered,  whirled,  as  the  potter’s  clay  ? By  what  hands  is 
the  incense  of  the  sea  built  up  into  domes  of  marble  ? ” 

9.  The  opposed  conditions  of  the  higher  and  lower  orders 
of  cloud,  with  the  balanced  intermediate  one,  are  beautifully 
seen  on  mountain  summits  of  rock  or  earth.  On  snowy  ones 
they  are  far  more  complex  : but  on  rock  summits  there  are 
three  distinct  forms  of  attached  cloud  in  serene  weather ; the 
first  that  of  cloud  veil  laid  over  them,  and  falling  in  folds 


THE  NINETEENTH  CENTURY, 


399 


through  their  ravines,  (the  obliquely  descending  clouds  of  the 
entering  chorus  in  Aristophanes)  ; secondly,  the  ascending 
cloud,  which  develops  itself  loosely  and  independently  as  it 
rises,  and  does  not  attach  itself  to  the  hillside,  while  the  fall- 
ing veil  cloud  clings  to  it  close  all  the  way  down  ; — and  lastly 
the  throned  cloud,  which  rests  indeed  on  the  mountain  sum- 
mit, with  its  base,  but  rises  high  above  into  the  shy,  contin- 
ually changing  its  outlines,  but  holding  its  seat  perhaps  all  day 
long.  ■* 

These  three  forms  of  cloud  belong  exclusive^  to  calm 
weather ; attached  drift  cloud,  (see  Note  11)  can  only  be 
formed  in  the  wind. 

10.  * Glaciers  of  the  Alps,’  page  10. — “ Let  a pound  weight 
be  placed  upon  a cube  of  granite  ” (size  of  supposed  cube  not 
mentioned),  “ the  cube  is  flattened,  though  in  an  infinitesimal 
degree.  Let  the  weight  be  removed,  the  cube  remains  a 
little  flattened.  Let  us  call  the  cube  thus  flattened  No.  1. 
Starting  with  No.  1 as  a new  mass,  let  the  pound  weight 
be  laid  upon  it.  We  have  a more  flattened  mass,  No.  2. 

. . . Apply  this  to  squeezed  rocks,  to  those,  for  example, 

which  form  the  base  of  an  obelisk  like  the  Matterhorn, — the 
conclusion  seems  inevitable  that  the  mountain  in  sinking  by  its 
own  weight,  etc.,  etc.  Similarly  the  Nelson  statue  must  be 
gradually  flattening  the  Nelson  column, — and  in  time  Cleo- 
patra’s needle  will  be  as  flat  as  her  pincushion. 

11.  4 Glaciers  of  the  Alps,’  page  146. — “ The  sun  was  near 
the  western  horizon,  and  I remained  alone  upon  the  Grat  to 
see  his  last  beams  illuminate  the  mountains,  which,  with  one 
exception,  were  without  a trace  of  cloud. 

This  exception  was  the  Matterhorn,  the  appearance  of  which 
was  extremely  instructive.  The  obelisk  appeared  to  be  di- 
vided in  two  halves  by  a vertical  line,  drawn  from  its  summit 
half-way  down,  to  the  windward  of  which  we  had  the  bare 
cliffs  of  the  mountain  ; and  to  the  left  of  it  a cloud  which  ap- 
peared to  cling  tenaciously  to  the  rocks. 

In  reality,  however,  there  was  no  clinging ; the  condensed 
vapour  incessantly  got  away,  but  it  was  ever  renewed,  and 
thus  a river  of  cloud  had  been  sent  from  the  mountain  over 


400 


THE  STORM-CLOUD  OF 


the  valley  of  Aosta.  The  wind,  in  fact,  blew  lightly  up  ths 
valley  of  St  Nicholas,  charged  with  moisture,  and  when  the 
air  that  held  it  rubbed  agaimt  the  cold  cone  of  the  Matterhorn, 
the  vapour  was  chilled  and  precipitated  in  his  lee.” 

It  is  not  explained,  why  the  wind  was  not  chilled  by  rubbing 
against  any  of  the  neighbouring  mountains,  nor  why  the  cone 
of  the  Matterhorn,  mostly  of  rock,  should  be  colder  than  cones 
of  snow.  The  phenomenon  was  first  described  by  De  Saus 
sure,  who  gives  the  same  explanation  as  Tyndall ; and  from 
whom,  in  the  first  volume  of  ‘Modern  Painters,’  I adopted  it 
without  sufficient  examination.  Afterwards  I re-examined  it, 
and  showed  its  fallacy,  with  respect  to  the  cap  or  helmet  cloud, 
in  the  fifth  volume  of  ‘ Modern  Painters,’  page  142,  in  the 
terms  given  in  the  subjoined  note,*  but  I still  retained  the 
explanation  of  Saussure  for  the  lee-side  cloud,  engraving  in 
plate  63  the  modes  of  its  occurrence  on  the  Aiguille  Dru,  oi 
which  the  most  ordinary  one  saw  afterwards  represented  by 
Tyndall  in  his  ‘Glaciers  of  the  Alps,’  under  the  title  of  ‘Ban- 
ner-cloud.’ Its  less  imaginative  title,  in  ‘Modern  Painters,’  of 

* “But  both  Saussure  and  I ought  to  have  known, — we  did  know, 
but  did  not  think  of  it, — that  the  covering  or  cap-cloud  forms  on  hot 
summits  as  well  as  cold  ones; — that  the  red  and  bare  rocks  of  Mont  Pi- 
late, hotter,  certainly,  after  a day’s'  sunshine  than  the  cold  storm-wind 
which  sweeps  to  them  from  the  Alps,  nevertheless  have  been  renowned 
for  their  helmet  of  cloud,  ever  since  the  Romans  watched  the  cloven 
summit,  grey  against  the  south,  from  the  ramparts  of  Vindonissa,  giving 
it  the  name  from  which  the  good  Catholics  of  Lucerne  have  warped  out 
their  favourite  piece  of  terrific  sacred  biography.  And  both  my  master 
and  I should  also  have  reflected  that  if  our  theory  about  its  formation 
had  been  generally  true,  the  helmet  cloud  ought  to  form  on  every  cold 
summit,  at  the  approach  of  rain,  in  approximating  proportions  to  the 
bulk  of  the  glaciers  ; which  is  so  far  from  being  the  case  that  not  only 
(a)  the  cap-cloud  may  often  be  seen  on  lower  summits  of  grass  or  rock, 
while  the  higher  ones  are  splendidly  clear  (which  may  be  accounted  for 
by  supposing  the  wind  containing  the  moisture  not  to  have  risen  so  high); 
but  (i>)  the  cap-cloud  always  shows  a preference  for  hills  of  a conicaS 
form,  such  as  the  Mole  or  Niesen,  which  can  have  very  littleypower  in 
chilling  the  air,  even  supposing  they  were  cold  themselves;  while  it  will 
entirely  refuse  to  form  huge  masses  of  mountain,  which,  supposing  them 
of  chilly  temperament,  must  have  discomforted  the  atmosphere  in  theix 
neighbourhood  for  leagues. 


THE  NINETEENTH  CENTURY 


401 


* Lee-side  cloud/  is  more  comprehensive,  for  this  cloud  forms 
often  under  the  brows  of  far-terraced  precipices,  where  it  has 
no  resemblance  to  a banner.  No  true  explanation  of  it  lias 
ever  yet  been  given  ; for  the  first  condition  of  the  problem 
has  hitherto  been  unobserved, — namely,  that  such  cloud  is 
constant  in  certain  states  of  weather,  under  precipitous  rocks  : 
— but  never  developed  with  distinctness  by  domes  of  snow. 

But  my  former  expansion  of  Saussure’s  theory  is  at  least 
closer  to  the  facts  than  Professor  Tyndall’s  “ robbing  against 
the  rocks/’  and  I therefore  allow  room  for  it  here,  with  its 
illustrative  woodcut. 

“ When  a moist  wind  blows  in  clear  weather  over  a cold 
summit,  it  has  not  time  to  get  chilled  as  it  approaches  the 
rock,  and  therefore  the  air  remains  clear,  and  the  sky  bright 
on  the  windward  side  ; but  under  the  lee  of  the  peak,  there  is 
partly  a back  eddy,  and  partly  still  air ; and  in  that  lull  and 
eddy  the  wind  gets  time  to  be  chilled  by  the  rock,  and  the 
cloud  appears,  as  a boiling  mass  of  white  vapour,  rising  con- 
tinually with  the  return  current  to  the  upper  edge  of  the 
mountain,  where  it  is  caught  by  the  straight  wind  and  partly 
torn,  partly  melted  away  in  broken  fragments. 

“ In  the  accompanying  figure,  the  dark  mass  represents  the 
mountain  peak,  the  arrow  the  main  direction  of  the  wind,  the 


curved  lines  show  the  directions  of  such  current  and  its  con- 
centration, and  the  dotted  line  encloses  the  space  in  which 
cloud  forms  densely,  floating  away  beyond  and  above  in  ir- 
regular tongues  and  flakes.” 

12.  See  below,  on  the  different  uses  of  the  word  ‘reflection/ 
note  14,  and  note  that  throughout  this  lecture  I use  the  words 
* aqueous  molecules,’  alike  of  water  liquid  or  vaporized,  not 


402 


THE  STORM-CLOUD  OE 


knowing  under  wliat  conditions  or  at  what  temperatures  water* 
dust  becomes  water-gas  ; and  still  less,  supposing  pure  water- 
gas  blue,  and  pure  air  blue,  what  are  the  changes  in  either 
which  make  them  what  sailors  call  “dirty but  it  is  one  of 
the  worst  omissions  of  the  previous  lecture,  that  I have  not 
stated  among  the  characters  of  the  plague-cloud  that  it  is 
always  dirty,*  and  never  blue  under  any  conditions,  neither 
when  deep  in  the  distance,  nor  when  in  the  electric  states 
which  produce  sulphurous  blues  in  natural  cloud.  But  see 
the  next  note. 

13.  Black  clouds. — For  the  sudden  and  extreme  local  black- 
ness of  thundercloud,  see  Turner’s  drawing  of  Winchelsea, 
(England  series),  and  compare  Homer,  of  tbe  Ajaces,  in  the 
4th  book  of  the  Iliad, — (I  came  on  the  passage  in  verifying 
Mr.  Hill’s  quotation  from  the  5tli.) 

“ aua  vecpos  eh zero  'ire^uu. 

'fls  S’  ur  anb  crKOTTirjs  elSev  vecpos  anr6\os  at'bp 
’E pXQ/jLtvov  Kara  ttovtov  virb  Z ecpvpoio  leaps, 

Ta>  84  t’,  dvevQev  eovn,  peXavrepov,  Tjvre  niccra 
4>ai per',  ibp  Kara  tt6ptop , dyei  84  re  AaiXana  ■noTeKriV 
'Piyptrep  re  iScbp,  viro  re  (nr4os  tfAaae  pp Aa  • 

T OLCti  apt.  A idvrecrcnv  appiQoeav  atfawp 
Ariov  4s  TroXepov  tt vtapal  kipvpto  (pdXayyes 
Kodveai ,” 

I give  Chapman’s  version — noting  only  that  his  breath  of 
Zephyrus,  ought  to  have  been  c cry  ’ or  ‘ roar  ’ of  Zephyrus, 
the  blackness  of  the  cloud  being  as  much  connected  with  the 
wildness  of  the  wind  as,  in  the  formerly  quoted  passage,  its 
brightness  with  calm  of  air. 

“ Behind  them  hid  the  ground 
A cloud  of  foot,  that  seemed  to  smoke.  And  as  a Goatherd  spies 
On  some  hill  top,  out  of  the  sea  a rainy  vapour  rise, 

Driven  by  the  breath  of  Zephyrus,  which  though  far  off  he  rest, 

Comes  on  as  black  as  pitch,  and  brings  a tempest  in  his  breast 
Whereat  he,  frighted,  drives  his  herds  apace  into  a den  ; 

So,  darkening  earth,  with  swords  and  shields,  showed  these  with  all 
their  men.” 

* In  my  final  collation  of  the  lectures  given  at  Oxford  last  year  on  the 
Art  of  England,  I shall  have  occasion  to  take  notice  of  the  effects  of 
this  character  of  plague-cloud  on  our  younger  painters,  who  have  per- 
haps never  in  their  lives  seen  a clean  sky  1 


TEE  NINETEENTH  CENTURY. 


403 


I add  here  Chapman’s  version  of  the  other  passage,  which 
is  extremely  beautiful  and  close  to  the  text,  while  Pope’s  is 
hopelessly  erroneous. 

“ Their  ground  they  still  made  good, 
And  in  their  silence  and  set  powers,  like  fair  still  clouds  they  stood, 
With  which  Jove  crowns  the  tops  of  hills  in  any  quiet  day 
When  Boreas,  and  the  ruder  winds  that  use  to  drive  away 
Air’s  dusky  vapours , being  loose , in  many  a whistling  gale, 

Are  pleasingly  bound  up  and  calm,  and  not  a breath  exhale.” 

14.  ‘Reflected.’ — The  reader  must  be  warned  in  this  place 
of  the  difference  implied  by  my  use  of  the  word  ‘cast ’in 
page  17,  and  ‘ reflected  ’ here  : that  is  to  say,  between  light 
or  colour  which  an  object  possesses,  whatever  the  angle  it  is 
seen  at,  and  the  light  'which  it  reverberates  at  one  angle  only. 
The  Alps,  under  the  rose  * of  sunset,  are  exactly  of  the  same 
colour  whether  you  see  them  from  Berne  or  Schaffhausen. 
But  the  gilding  to  our  eyes  of  a burnished  cloud  depends,  I 
believe,  at  least  for  a measure  of  its  lustre,  upon  the  angle  at 
which  the  rays  incident  upon  it  are  reflected  to  the  eye,  just 
as  much  as  the  glittering  of  the  sea  beneath  it — or  the  spark- 
ling of  the  windows  of  the  houses  on  the  shore. 

Previously,  at  page  15,  in  calling  the  molecules  of  trans- 

* In  speaking,  at  p.  17  of  the  first  lecture,  of  the  limits  of  depth  in  the 
rose-colour  cast  on  snow,  I ought  to  have  noted  the  greater  strength  of 
the  tint  possible  under  the  light  of  the  tropics.  The  following  passage, 
in  Mr.  Cunningham’s  ‘Natural  History  of  the  Strait  of  Magellan,’  is  to 
me  of  the  greatest  interest,  because  of  the  beautiful  effect  described  as 
Been  on  the  occasion  of  his  visit  to  “tlie  small  town  of  Santa  Rosa,” 
(near  Valparaiso.)  “The  day,  though  clear,  had  not  been  sunny,  so 
that,  although  the  snowy  heights  of  the  Andes  had  been  distinctly  visi- 
ble throughout  the  greater  part  of  our  journey,  they  had  not  been  illu- 
minated by  the  rays  of  the  sun.  But  now,  as  we  turned  the  corner  of 
a street,  the  chain  of  the  Cordillera  suddenly  burst  on  our  gaze  in  such 
a blaze  of  splendour  that  it  almost  seemed  as  if  the  windows  of  heaven 
had  been  opened  for  a moment,  permitting  a flood  of  crimson  light  to 
stream  forth  upon  the  snow.  The  sight  was  so  unexpected,  and  so 
transcendently  magnificent,  that  a breathless  silence  fell  upon  us  for  a 
few  moments,  while  even  the  driver  stopped  his  horses.  This  deep  red 
glow  lasted  for  three  or  four  minutes,  and  then  rapidly  faded  into  that 
lovely  rosy  hue  so  characteristic  of  snow  at  sunset  among  the  Alps.” 


404 


THE  STORM- CLOVE  OF 


parent  atmospheric  ‘ absolutely  ’ unreflective  of  light,  I mean, 
in  like  manner,  unreflective  from  their  surfaces.  Their  blue 
colour  seen  against  a dark  ground  is  indeed  a kind  of  reflec- 
tion, but  one  of  which  I do  not  understand  the  nature.  It  is 
seen  most  simply  in  wood  smoke,  blue  against  trees,  brown 
against  clear  light ; but  in  both  cases  the  colour  is  conununi 
cated  to  (or  left  in)  the  transmitted  rays. 

So  also  the  green  of  the  sky  (p.  18)  is  said  to  be  given  bj» 
transmitted  light,  yellow  rays  passing  through  blue  air  : much 
yet  remains  to  be  known  respecting  translucent  colours  of  this 
kind  ; only  let  them  always  be  clearly  distinguished  in  our 
minds  from  the  firmly  possessed  colour  of  opaque  substances, 
like  grass  or  malachite. 

15.  Diffraction. — Since  these  passages  were  written,  I have 
been  led,  in  conversation  with  a scientific  friend,  to  doubt  my 
statement  that  the  coloured  portions  of  the  lighted  clouds 
were  brighter  than  the  white  ones.  He  was  convinced  that 
the  resolution  of  the  rays  would  diminish  their  power,  and  in 
thinking  over  the  matter,  I am  disposed  to  agree  with  him, 
although  my  impression  at  the  time  has  been  always  that  the 
diffracted  colours  rose  out  of  the  white,  as  a rainbow  does 
out  of  the  grey.  But  whatever  the  facts  may  be,  in  this  re- 
spect the  statement  in  the  text  of  the  impossibility  of  repre- 
senting diffracted  colour  in  painting  is  equally  true.  It  may 
be  that  the  resolved  hues  are  darker  than  the  white,  as 
coloured  panes  in  a window  are  darker  than  the  colourless 
glass,  but  all  are  alike  in  a key  which  no  artifice  of  painting 
can  approach. 

For  the  rest,  the  phenomena  of  diffraction  are  not  yet  ar- 
ranged systematically  enough  to  be  usefully  discussed  : some 
of  them  involving  the  resolution  of  the  light,  and  others  merely 
its  intensification.  My  attention  was  first  drawn  to  them 
near  St.  Laurent,  on  the  Jura  mountains,  by  the  vivid  reflec- 
tion, (so  it  seemed),  of  the  image  of  the  sun  from  a particular 
point  of  a cloud  in  the  west,  after  the  sun  itself  was  beneath 
the  horizon : but  in  this  image  there  were  no  prismatic  col- 
ours, neither  is  the  constantly  seen  metamorphosis  of  pine 
forests  into  silver  filigree  on  ridges  behind  which  the  sun  is 


THE  NINETEENTH  CENTURY . 


405 


rising  or  setting,  accompanied  with  any  prismatic  hue  ; the 
trees  become  luminous,  but  not  iridescent : on  the  other  hand, 
in  his  great  account  of  his  ascent  of  Mont  Blanc  with  Mr. 
Huxley,  Professor  Tyndall  thus  describes  the  sun's  remark- 
able behaviour  on  that  occasion  : — “As  we  attained  the  brow 
which  forms  the  entrance  to  the  Grand  Plateau,  he  hung  his 
disk  upon  a spike  of  rock  to  our  left,  and,  surrounded  by  a 
glory  of  interference  spectra  of  the  most  gorgeous  colours, 
blazed  down  upon  us.”  (‘  Glaciers  of  the  Alps,’  p.  76.) 

Nothing  irritates  me  more,  myself,  than  having  the  colour 
of  my  own  descriptions  of  phenomena  in  anywise  attributed 
by  the  reader  to  accidental  states  either  of  my  mind  or  body  ; 
— but  I cannot,  for  once,  forbear  at  least  the  innocent  ques- 
tion to  Professor  Tyndall,  whether  the  extreme  beauty  of  these 
* interference  spectra  ’ may  not  have  been  partly  owing  to  the 
extreme  sobriety  of  the  observer  ? no  refreshment,  it  appears, 
having  been  attainable  the  night  before  at  the  Grands  Mulets, 
except  the  beverage  diluted  with  dirty  snow,  of  which  I have 
elsewhere  quoted  the  Professor’s  pensive  report, — “ my  mem- 
ory of  that  tea  is  not  pleasant.” 

16.  ‘Either  stationary  or  slow  in  motion,  reflecting  unre- 
solved light.  * 

The  rate  of  motion  is  of  course  not  essentially  connected 
with  the  method  of  illumination ; their  connection,  in  this 
instance,  needs  explanation  of  some  points  which  could  not 
be  dealt  with  in  the  time  of  a single  lecture. 

It  is  before  said,  with  reserve  only,  that  “a  cloud  is  where 
it  is  seen,  and  is  not  where  it  is  not  seen.”  But  thirty  years 
ago,  in  ‘ Modern  Painters,’  I pointed  out  (see  the  paragraph 
quoted  in  note  8th),  the  extreme  difficulty  of  arriving  at  the 
cause  of  cloud  outline,  or  explaining  how,  if  we  admitted  at 
any  given  moment  the  atmospheric  moisture  to  be  generally 
diffused,  it  could  be  chilled  by  formal  chills  into  formal  clouds. 
How,  for  instance,  in  the  upper  cirri,  a thousand  little  chills, 
alternating  with  a thousand  little  warmths,  could  stand  still 
as  a thousand  little  feathers. 

But  the  first  step  to  any  elucidation  of  the  matter  is  in  the 
firmly  fixing  in  our  minds  the  difference  between  windless 


406 


THE  STORM-CLOUD  OF 


clouds,  unaffected  by  any  conceivable  local  accident,  and 
windy  clouds,  affected  by  some  change  in  their  circumstances 
as  they  move. 

In  the  sunset  at  Abbeville,  represented  in  my  first  diagram, 
the  air  is  absolutely  calm  at  the  ground  surface,  and  the 
motion  of  its  upper  currents  extreme!}"  slow.  There  is  no 
local  reason  assignable  for  the  presence  of  the  cirri  above,  or 
of  the  thundercloud  below.  There  is  no  conceivable  cause 
either  in  the  geology,  or  the  moral  character,  of  the  two  sides 
of  the  town  of  Abbeville,  to  explain  why  there  should  be  dec- 
orative fresco  on  the  sky  over  the  southern  suburb,  and  a 
muttering  heap  of  gloom  and  danger  over  the  northern.  The 
electric  cloud  is  as  calm  in  motion  as  the  harmless  one  : it 
changes  its  form,  indeed  ; but  imperceptibly  ; and,  so  far  as 
can  be  discerned,  only  at  its  own  will  is  exalted,  and  with  its 
own  consent  abased. 

But  in  my  second  diagram  are  shown  forms  of  vapour  sus- 
taining at  every  instant  all  kinds  of  varying  local  influences; 
beneath,  fastened  down  by  mountain  attraction,  above,  flung 
afar  by  distracting  winds  ; here,  spread  abroad  into  blanched 
sheets  beneath  the  sunshine,  and  presently  gathered  into 
strands  of  coiled  cordage  in  the  shade.  Their  total  existence 
is  in  metamorphosis,  and  their  every  aspect  a surprise,  or  a 
deceit. 

17.  ■ Finely  comminuted  water  or  ice.’ 

My  impression  that  these  clouds  were  glacial  was  at  once 
confirmed  by  a member  of  my  audience,  Dr.  John  Bae,  in 
conversation  after  the  lecture,  in  which  he  communicated  to 
me  the  perfectly  definite  observations  which  be  has  had  the 
kindness  to  set  down  with  their  dates  for  me.  in  the  following 
letter  : — 

“4,  Addison  Gardens,  Kensington,  4th  Feb.,  1884. 

Dear  Sir, — I have  looked  up  my  old  journal  of  thirty 
years  ago,  written  in  pencil  because  it  was  impossible  to  keep 
ink  unfrozen  in  the  snow-hut  in  which  I passed  the  winter  of 
1853-4,  at  Repulse  Bay,  on  the  Arctic  Circle.* 

* I trust  that  Dr.  Rae  will  forgive  my  making  the  reader  better  awsn 
of  the  real  value  of  this  communication  by  allowing  him  to  see  also  the 


THE  NINETEENTH  CENTURY. 


407 


On  the  1st  of  February,  1854,  I find  the  following  : — 

* A beautiful  appearance  of  some  cirrus  clouds  near  the  sun, 
the  central  part  of  the  cloud  being  of  a fine  pink  or  red,  then 
green,  and  pink  fringe.  This  continued  for  about  a quarter 
of  an  hour.  The  same  was  observed  on  the  27th  of  the  month, 
but  not  so  bright.  Distance  of  clouds  from  sun,  from  3°  to  6°/ 

On  the  1st  February  the  temperature  was  38°  below  zero, 
and  on  the  27th  February  26°  below. 

‘ On  the  23rd  and  30th  (of  March)  the  same  splendid  ap- 
pearance of  clouds  as  mentioned  in  last  month’s  journal  was 
observed.  On  the  first  of  these  daj^s,  about  10.30  a.m.,  it  was 
extremely  beautiful.  The  clouds  were  ahout  8°  or  10°  from 
the  sun,  below  him  and  slightly  to  the  eastward, — having  a 
green  fringe  all  round,  then  pink  ; the  centre  part  at  first 
green,  and  then  pink  or  red.’ 

The  temperature  was  21°  below  zero,  Fahrenheit. 

There  may  have  been  other  colours — blue,  perhaps — but  I 
merely  noted  the  most  prominent ; and  what  I call  green  may 
have  been  bluish,  although  I do  not  mention  this  last  colour 
in  my  notes. 

From  the  lowness  of  the  temperature  at  the  time,  the 
clouds  must  have  been  frozen  moisture. 

The  phenomenon  is  by  no  means  common,  even  in  the 
Arctic  zone. 

The  second  beautiful  cloud -picture  shown  this  afternoon 
brought  so  visibly  to  my  memory  the  appearance  seen  by  me 
as  above  described,  that  I could  not  avoid  remarkingupon  it. 

Believe  me,  very  truly  yours, 

John  Rae,”  (M.D.,  F.R.S.) 

following  passage  from  the  kind  private  letter  by  which  it  was  supple- 
mented : — 

“ Many  years  in  the  Hudson’s  Bay  Company’s  service,  I and  my  men 
became  educated  for  Arctic  work,  in  which  I was  five  different  times 
employed,  in  two  of  which  expeditions  we  lived  wholly  by  our  own 
hunting  and  fishing  for  twelve  months,  once  in  a stone  house  (very  dis- 
agreeable), and  another  winter  in  a snow  hut  (better),  without  fire  of  any 
kind  to  warm  us.  On  the  first  of  these  expeditions,  1846-7,  my  little 
party,  there  being  no  officer  but  myself,  surveyed  seven  hundred  miles 
of  coast  of  Arctic  America  by  a sledge  journey,  which  Parry,  Ross,  Bach, 
and  Lyon  had  failed  to  accomplish,  costing  the  country  about  £70,000  or 
£80,000  at  the  lowest  computation.  The  total  expense  of  my  little 
party,  including  my  own  pay,  was  under  fourteen  hundred  pounds 
sterling. 

“ My  Arctic  work  has  been  recognised  by  the  award  of  the  founder’s 
gold  medal  of  the  Royal  Geographical  Society  (before  the  completion  of 
(he  whole  of  it).” 

4 


4:08 


THE  STORM-CLOUD  OF 


Now  this  letter  enables  me  to  leave  the  elements  of  your 
problem  for  you  in  very  clear  terms. 

Your  sky — altogether — may  be  composed  of  one  or  more 
of  four  things  : — 

Molecules  of  water  in  warm  weather. 

Molecules  of  ice  in  cold  weather. 

Molecules  of  water- vapour  in  warm  weather. 

Molecules  of  ice-vapour,  in  cold  weather. 

But  of  the  size,  distances,  or  modes  of  attraction  between 
these  different  kinds  of  particles,  I find  no  definite  informa- 
tion anywhere,  except  the  somewhat  vague  statement  by  Sir 
William  Thomson,  that  “if  a drop  of  water  could  be  magni- 
fied so  as  to  be  as  large  as  the  earth,  and  have  a diameter  of 
eight  thousand  miles,  then  a molecule  of  this  water  in  it 
would  appear  somewhat  larger  than  a shot  ” (What  kind  of 
shot  ?)  “and  somewhat  smaller  than  a cricket-ball  ” / 

And  as  I finally  review  the  common  accounts  given  of  cloud 
formation,  I find  it  quite  hopeless  for  the  general  reader  to 
deal  with  the  quantity  of  points  which  have  to  be  kept  in 
mind  and  severally  valued,  before  he  can  account  for  any 
given  phenomena.  I have  myself,  in  many  of  the  passages  of 
‘ Modern  Painters  ’ before  referred  to,  conceived  of  cloud  too 
narrowly  as  always  produced  by  cold , whereas  the  tempera- 
ture of  a cloud  must  continually,  like  that  of  our  visible  breath 
in  frosty  weather,  or  of  the  visible  current  of  steam,  or  the 
smoking  of  a warm  lake  surface  under  sudden  frost,  be  above 
that  of  the  surrounding  atmosphere  ; and  yet  I never  remem- 
ber entering  a cloud  without  being  chilled  by  it,  and  the 
darkness  of  the  plague- wind,  unless  in  electric  states  of  the 
air,  is  always  accompanied  by  deadly  chill. 

Nor,  so  far  as  I can  read,  has  any  proper  account  yet  been 
given  of  the  balance,  in  serene  air,  of  the  warm  air  under  the 
cold,  in  which  the  warm  air  is  at  once  compressed  by  weight, 
and  expanded  by  heat,  and  the  cold  air  is  thinned  by  its  ele- 
vation, yet  contracted  by  its  cold.  There  is  indeed  no  possi- 
bility of  embracing  the  conditions  in  a single  sentence,  any 
more  than  in  a single  thought.  But  the  practical  balance  is 
effected  in  calm  air,  so  that  its  lower  strata  have  no  tendency 


TEE  NINETEENTH  CENTURY, 


409 


to  rise,  like  the  air  in  a fire  balloon,  nor  its  higher  strata  to 
fall,  unless  they  congeal  into  rain  or  snow. 

I believe  it  will  be  an  extreme  benefit  to  my  younger  read- 
ers if  I write  for  them  a little  ‘ Grammar  of  Ice  and  Air,’ 
collecting  the  known  facts  on  all  these  matters,  and  I am 
much  minded  to  put  by  my  ecclesiastical  history  for  a while, 
in  order  to  relate  what  is  legible  of  the  history  of  the  visible 
Heaven, 

18.  ‘ You  can’t  get  a billiard  ball  to  fall  a shivering  on  its 
own  account.’ — I am  under  correction  in  this  statement  by 
the  Lucasian  professor  of  Cambridge,  "with  respect  to  the 
molecules  of  bodies  capable  of  ‘ epipolizing’  light.  “ Nothing 
seems  more  natural  than  to  suppose  that  the  incident  vibra- 
tions of  the  luminiferous  ether  produce  vibratory  movements 
among  the  ultimate  molecules  of  sensitive  substances,  and 
that  the  molecules  in  return,  swinging  on  their  own  account, 
produce  vibrations  in  the  luminous  ether,  and  thus  cause  the 
sensation  of  light.  The  periodic  times  of  these  vibrations  de- 
pend upon  the  periods  in  which  the  molecules  are  disposed  to 
swing.”  (‘  On  the  Changes  of  Refrangibility  of  Light,’  p. 
549.) 

It  seems  to  me  a pleasant  conclusion,  this,  of  recent  science, 
and  suggestive  of  a perfectly  regenerate  theology.  The  ‘ Let 
there  be  light  ’ of  the  former  Creation  is  first  expanded  into 
‘Let  there  be  a disposition  of  the  molecules  to  swing,’  and 
the  destinies  of  mankind,  no  less  than  the  vitality  of  the  uni- 
verse, depend  thereafter  upon  this  amiable,  but  perhaps  ca- 
pricious, and  at  all  events  not  easily  influenced  or  anticipated, 
disposition ! 

Is  it  not  also  strange  that  in  a treatise  entering  into  so  high 
mathematical  analysis  as  that  from  which  I quote,  the  false 
word  ‘swing,’  expressing  the  action  of  a body  liable  to  con- 
tinuous arrest  by  gravitation,  should  be  employed  to  signify 
the  oscillation,  wholly  unaffected  by  gravity,  of  substance  in 
which  the  motion  once  originated,  may  cease  only  with  the 
essence  of  the  body  ? 

It  is  true  that  in  men  of  high  scientific  calibre,  such  as  the 
writer  in  this  instance,  carelessness  in  expression  does  not  af- 


410 


THE  STORM-CLOUD  OF 


feet  the  security  of  their  conclusions.  But  in  men  of  lower 
rank,  mental  defects  in  language  indicate  fatal  flaws  in  thought. 
And  although  the  constant  habit  to  which  I owe  my  (often 
foolishly  praised)  “command  of  language” — of  never  allow- 
ing a sentence  to  pass  proof  in  which  I have  not  considered 
whether,  for  the  vital  word  in  it,  a better  could  be  found  in 
the  dictionary,  makes  me  somewhat  morbidly  intolerant  of 
careless  diction,  it  may  be  taken  for  an  extremely  useful  and 
practical  rule,  that  if  a man  can  think  clearly  he  will  write 
well,  and  that  no  good  science  was  ever  written  in  bad  Eng- 
lish. So  that,  before  you  consider  whether  a scientific  author 
says  a true  or  a false  thing,  you  had  better  first  look  if  he  is 
able  properly  to  say  anything, — and  secondly,  whether  his 
conceit  permits  him  to  say  anything  properly. 

Thus,  wdien  Professor  Tyndall,  endeavouring  to  write  poet- 
ically of  the  sun,  tells  you  that  “ The  Lilies  of  the  field  are 
his  workmanship,”  you  may  observe,  first,  that  since  the  sun 
is  not  a man,  nothing  that  he  does  is  workmanship  ; while 
even  the  figurative  statement  that  he  rejoices  as  a strong  man 
to  run  his  course,  is  one  which  Professor  Tyndall  has  no  in- 
tention whatever  of  admitting.  And  you  may  then  observe, 
in  the  second  place,  that,  if  even  in  that  figurative  sense,  the 
lilies  of  the  field  are  the  sun’s  workmanship,  in  the  same 
sense  the  lilies  of  the  hothouse  are  the  stove’s  workman- 
ship,— and  in  perfectly  logical  parallel,  you,  who  are  alive 
here  to  listen  to  me,  because  you  have  been  warmed  and  fed 
through  the  winter,  are  the  workmanship  of  your  own  coal- 
scuttles. 

Again,  when  Mr.  Balfour  Stewart  begins  a treatise  on  the 
‘ Conservation  of  Energy,’  which  is  to  conclude,  as  we  shall 
see  presently,  with  the  prophecy  of  its  total  extinction  as  far 
as  the  present  world  is  concerned, — by  clothing  in  a “properly 
scientific  garb,”  our  innocent  impression  that  there  is  some 
difference  between  the  blow  of  a rifle  stock  and  a rifle  ball ; 
he  prepares  for  the  scientific  toilette  by  telling  us  in  italics 
that  “the  something  which  the  rifle  ball  possesses  in  contra- 
distinction to  the  rifle  stock  is  clearly  the  power  of  overcom- 
ing resistance,”  since  “ it  can  penetrate  through  oak-wood  02 


THE  NINETEENTH  CENTURY. 


411 


through  water — or  (alas!  that  it  should  be  so  often  tried) 
through  the  human  body ; and  this  power  of  penetration  ” 
(italics  now  mine)  “is  the  distinguishing  characteristic  of  a sub- 
stance mooing  with  very  great  velocity.  Let  us  define  by  the 
term  ‘ Energy,’  this  power  which  the  rifle  ball  possesses  of 
overcoming  obstacles,  or  of  doing  work.” 

Now,  had  Mr.  Stewart  been  a better  scholar,  he  would  have 
felt,  even  if  he  had  not  known,  that  the  Greek  word  ‘ energy  ’ 
could  only  be  applied  to  the  living — and  of  living,  with  per- 
fect propriety  only  to  the  mental , action  of  animals,  and  that 
it  could  no  more  be  applied  as  a ‘ scientific  garb,’  to  the  flight 
of'  a rifle  ball,  than  to  the  fall  of  a dead  body.  And,  if  he  had 
attained  thus  much,  even  of  the  science  of  language,  it  is  just 
possible  that  the  small  forte  and.  faculty  of  thought  he  himself 
possesses  might  have  been  energized  so  far  as  to  perceive  that 
the  force  of  all  inertly  moving  bodies,  whether  rifle  stock,  rifle 
ball,  or  rolling  world,  is  under  precisely  one  and  the  same 
relation  to  their  weights  and  velocities ; that  the  effect  of 
their  impact  depends — not  merely  on  their  pace,  but  their 
constitution  ; and  on  the  relative  forms  and  stability  of  the 
substances  they  encounter,  and  that  there  is  no  more  quality 
of  Energy,  though  much  less  equality  of  Art,  in  the  swiftly 
penetrating  shot,  or  crushing  ball,  than  in  the  deliberately 
contemplative  and  administrative  puncture  by  a gnat’s  pro- 
lx)scis,  or  a sempstress’  needle. 

Mistakes  of  this  kind,  beginning  with  affectations  of  dic- 
tion, do  not  always  invalidate  general  statements  or  con- 
clusions,— for  a bad  writer  often  equivocates  out  of  a blun- 
der as  he  equivocates  into  one, — but  I have  been  strict  in 
pointing  out  the  confusions  of  idea  admitted  in  scientific 
books  between  the  movement  of  a swing,  that  of  a sounding 
violin  chord,  and  that  of  an  agitated  liquid,  because  these  con- 
fusions have  actually  enabled  Professor  Tyndall  to  keep  the 
scientific  world  in  darkness  as  to  the  real  nature  of  glacier 
motion  for  the  last  twenty  years  ; and  to  induce  a resultant 
quantity  of  aberration  in  the  scientific  mind  concerning  gla- 
cial erosion,  of  which  another  twenty  years  will  scarcely  unda 
the  damage. 


412 


THE  STORM-CLOUD  OF 


19.  ‘Force  and  pace.5 — Among  the  nearer  questions  which 
the  careless  terminology  on  which  I have  dwelt  in  the  above 
note  has  left  unsettled,  I believe  the  reader  will  be  surprised,  as 
much  as  I am  myself,  to  find  that  of  the  mode  of  impulse  in  a 
common  gust  of  wind  ! Whence  is  its  strength  communicated 
to  it,  and  how  gathered  in  it?  and  what  is  the  difference  of 
manner  in  the  impulse  between  compressible  gas  and  incom= 
pressible  fluid  ? For  instance  : The  'water  at  the  head  of  a 
weir  is  passing  every  instant  from  slower  into  quicker  mo- 
tion ; but  (until  broken  in  the  air)  the  fast  flowing  water  is 
just  as  dense  as  the  slowly  flowing  water.  But  a fan  alter- 
nately compresses  and  rarefies  the  air  between  it  and  the 
cheek,  and  the  'violence  of  a destructive  gust  in  a gale  of  wind 
means  a momentary  increase  in  velocity  and  density  of  which 
I cannot  myself  in  the  least  explain, — and  find  in  no  book  on 
dynamics  explained, — the  mechanical  causation. 

The  following  letter,  from  a fiiend  whose  observations  on 
natural  history  for  the  last  seven  or  eight  years  have  been 
consistently  valuable  and  instructive  to  me,  wTill  be  found, 
with  that  subjoined  in  the  note,  in  various  ways  interesting  ; 
but  especially  in  its  notice  of  the  inefficiency  of  ordinary  in- 
strumental registry  in  such  matters : — 


“ 6,  Moira  Place,  Southampton,  Feb.  8th,  1884. 

“ Dear  Mr.  Buskin, — Some  time  since  I troubled  you  with 
a note  or  two  about  sea-birds,  etc.  . . . but  perhaps  I should 
never  have  ventured  to  trouble  you  again,  had  not  your  lecture 
on  the  ‘ Storm  Clouds 5 touched  a subject  which  has  deeply 
interested  me  for  years  past.  I had,  of  course,  no  idea  that 
you  had  noticed  this  thing,  though  I might  have  known  that, 
living  the  life  you  do,  you  must  have  doDe  so.  As  for  me,  it 
has  been  a source  of  perplexity  for  years  : so  much  so,  that  I 
began  to  wonder  at  times  whether  I was  not  under  some  men- 
tal delusion  about  it,  until  the  strange  theatrical  displays  of 
the  last  few  months,  for  which  I was  more  or  less  prepared, 
led  so  many  to  use  their  eyes,  unmuzzled  by  brass  or  glass, 
for  a time.  I know  you  do  not  bother,  or  care  much  to  read 
newspapers,  but  I have  taken  the  liberty  of  cutting  out  and 
sending  a letter  of  mine,  sent  on  the  1st  January  to  an  evening 


THE  NINETEENTH  CENTURY. 


413 


paper,*  upon  this  subject,  thinking  you  might  like  to  know 
that  one  person,  at  any  rate,  has  seen  that  strange,  bleared 
look  about  the  sun,  shining  so  seldom  except  through  a ghastly 
glare  of  pale,  persistent  haze.  May  it  be  that  the  singular 
colouring  of  the  sunsets  marks  an  end  of  this  long  period  of 
plague-cloud,  and  that  in  them  we  have  promise  of  steadier 
weather  ? (No  : those  sunsets  were  entirely  distinct  phenom- 
ena, and  promised,  if  anything,  only  evil. — R.) 

“ I was  glad  to  see  that  in  your  lecture  you  gave  the  depend- 
ants upon  the  instrument-makers  a warning.  On  the  26th  I 
had  a heavy  sailing-boat  lifted  and  blown,  from  where  she  lay 
hauled  up,  a distance  of  four  feet,  which,  as  the  boat  has  four 
hundred-weight  of  iron  upon  her  keel,  gives  a wind-gust,  or 
force,  not  easily  measured  by  instruments. 

“ Believe  me,  dear  Mr.  Ruskin, 

“ Yours  sincerely, 

“ Robt.  C.  Leslie.” 

* ‘THE  LOOK  OF  THE  SKY. 

‘ To  the  Editor  of  the  St.  James’s  Gazette. 

‘ Sir, — I have  been  a very  constant  though  not  a scientific  observer 
of  the  sky  for  a period  of  forty  years ; and  I confess  to  a certain  feeling 
of  astonishment  at  the  way  in  which  the  “ recent  celestial  phenomena  ” 
seem  to  have  taken  the  whole  body  of  scientific  observers  by  surprise. 
It  would  even  appear  that  something  like  these  extraordinary  sunsets 
was  necessary  to  call  the  attention  of  such  observers  to  what  has  long 
been  a source  of  perplexity  to  a variety  of  common  folk,  like  sailors, 
farmers,  and  fishermen.  But  to  such  people  the  look  of  the  weather, 
and  what  comes  of  that  look,  is  of  far  more  consequence  than  the  exact 
amount  of  ozone  or  the  depth  or  width  of  a band  of  the  spectrum. 

‘ Now,  to  all  such  observers,  including  myself,  it  has  been  plain  that 
of  late  neither  the  look  of  the  sky  nor  the  character  of  the  weather  has 
been,  as  we  should  say,  what  it  used  to  be  ; and  those  whose  eyes  were 
strong  enough  to  look  now  and  then  toward  the  sun  have  noticed  a very 
marked  increase  of  what  some  would  call  a watery  look  about  him, 
which  might  perhaps  be  better  expressed  as  a white  sheen  or  glare,  at 
times  developing  into  solar  halo  or  mock  suns,  as  noted  in  your  paper 
of  the  2nd  of  October  last  year.  A fisherman  would  describe  it  as 
white  and  davery-like.”  So  far  as  my  observation  goes,  this  appear- 
ance was  only  absent  here  for  a limited  period  during  the  present  sum- 
mer, when  we  had  a week  or  two  of  nearly  normal  weather  ; the  summer 
before  it  was  seldom  absent. 

‘ Again,  those  whose  business  or  pleasure  has  depended  on  the  use  of 
wind-power  have  all  remarked  the  stra  ;ge  persistence  of  hard  westerly 
and  easterly  winds,  the  westerly  ones  at  times  partaking  of  an  almost 
trade-wind-like  force  and  character.  The  summer  of  1882  was  especial- 
ly remarkable  for  these  winds,  while  each  stormy  November  has  been 
followed  by  a period  about  mid-winter  of  mild  calm  weather  with  dense 


414 


THE  STORM-CLOUD  OF 


I am  especially  delighted,  in  this  letter,  by  my  friend's  vig« 
orously  accurate  expression,  eyes  “ unmuzzled  by  brass  or 
glass.”  I have  had  occasion  continually,  in  my  art-lectures, 
to  dwell  on  the  great  law  of  human  perception  and  power, 
that  the  beauty  which  is  good  for  us  is  prepared  for  the  nat- 
ural focus  of  the  sight,  and  the  sounds  which  are  delightful 
to  us  for  the  natural  power  of  the  nerves  of  the  ear  ; and  the 
art  which  is  admirable  in  us,  is  the  exercise  of  our  own  bodily 
powers,  and  not  carving  by  sand-blast,  nor  oratorizing  through 

fog.  During  these  strong  winds  in  summer  and  early  autumn  the 
weather  would  remain  bright  and  sunny,  and  to  a landsman  would  be 
not  remarkable  in  any  way,  while  the  barometer  lias  been  little  affected  by 
them  ; but  it  has  been  often  observed  by  those  employed  on  the  water 
that  when  it  ceased  blowing  half  a gale  the  sky  at  once  became  overcast, 
with  damp  weather  or  rain.  This  may  all  seem  common  enough  to 
most  people  ; but  to  those  accustomed  to  gauge  the  wind  by  the  number 
of  reefs  wanted  in  a mainsail  or  foresail  it  was  not  so ; and  the  number 
of  consecutive  days  when  two  or  more  reefs  have  been  kept  tied  down 
during  the  last  few  summers  has  been  remarkable— alternating  at  times 
with  equally  persistent  spells  of  calm  and  fog  such  as  we  are  now  pass- 
ing through.  Again,  we  have  had  an  unusually  early  appearance  of  ice 
in  the  Atlantic,  and  most  abnormal  weather  over  Central  Europe  ; while 
in  a letter  I have  just  received  from  an  old  hand  on  board  a large  Aus- 
tralian clipper,  he  speaks  of  heavy  gales  and  big  seas  off  that  coast  in 
almost  the  height  of  their  summer. 

‘ Now,  upon  all  this,  in  our  season  of  long  twilights,  we  have  bursting 
upon  us  some  clear  weather ; with  a display  of  cloud-forms  or  vapour 
at  such  an  elevation  that,  looking  at  them  one  day  through  an  opening- 
in  the  nearer  clouds,  they  seemed  so  distant  as  to  resemble  nothing  but 
the  delicate  grain  of  ivory  upon  a billiard-ball.  And  yet  with  the  fact 
that  two-tliirds  of  this  earth  is  covered  with  water,  and  bearing  in  mind 
the  effect  which  a very  small  increase  of  sun-power  would  have  in  pro- 
ducing cloud  and  lifting  it  above  its  normal  level  for  a time,  we  are 
asked  to  believe  that  this  sheen  is  all  dust  of  some  kind  or  other,  in  order 
to  explain  what  are  now  known  as  the  “recent  sunsets”:  though  I 
venture  to  think  that  we  shall  see  more  of  them  yet  when  the  sun  comes 
our  way  again. 

‘ At  first  sight,  increased  sun-power  would  seem  to  mean  more  sun- 
shine ; but  a little  reflection  would  show  us  that  this  would  not  be  for 
long,  while  any  considerable  addition  to  the  sun’s  power  would  be  fol- 
lowed by  such  a vast  increase  of  vapour  that  we  should  only  see  him,  in 
our  latitudes,  at  very  short  intervals.  I am  aware  that  all  this  is  most 
unscientific  ; but  I have  read  column  after  column  of  explanation 
written  by  those  who  are  supposed  to  know  all  about  such  things,  and 
find  myself  not  a jot  the  wiser  for  it.  Do  you  know  anybody  who  is  ? — 
I am,  Sir,  your  obedient  servant, 

‘An  Unscientific  Observer.  (R.  Leslie.) 

1 January  1.’ 


THE  NINETEENTH  CENTURY. 


415 


ji  speaking  trumpet,  nor  dancing  with  spring  heels.  But 
more  recentfy,  I have  become  convinced  that  even  in  matters 
of  science,  although  every  added  mechanical  power  has  its 
proper  use  and  sphere,  yet  the  things  which  are  vital  to  our 
happiness  and  prosperity  can  only  be  known  by  the  rational 
use  and  subtle  skill  of  our  natural  powers.  We  may  trust 
the  instrument  with  the  prophecy  of  storm,  or  registry  of 
rainfall  ; but  the  conditions  of  atmospheric  change,  on  which 
depend  the  health  of  animals  and  fruitfulness  of  seeds,  can 
only  be  discerned  by  the  eye  and  the  bodily  sense. 

Take,  for  simplest  and  nearest  example,  this  question  of 
the  stress  of  wind.  It  is  not  the  actual  power  that  is  im- 
measurable, if  only  it  would  stand  to  be  measured  ! Instru- 
ments could  easily  now  be  invented  which  would  register  not 
only  a blast  that  could  lift  a sailing  boat,  but  one  that  would 
sink  a ship  of  the  line.  But,  lucklessly — the  blast  won’t  pose 
to  the  instrument ! nor  can  the  instrument  be  adjusted  to  the 
blast.  In  the  gale  of  which  my  friend  speaks  in  his  next  let- 
ter, 26th  January,  a gust  came  down  the  hill  above  Collision 
village  upon  two  old  oaks,  which  were  well  rooted  in  the  slate 
rock,  and  some  fifty  or  sixty  feet  high — the  one,  some  twenty 
yards  below  the  other.  The  blast  tore  the  highest  out  of  the 
ground,  peeling  its  roots  from  the  rock  as  one  peels  an  orange 
— swept  the  head  of  the  lower  tree  away  with  it  in  one  ruin, 
and  snapped  the  two  leader  branches  of  the  upper  one  over 
the  other’s  stump,  as  one  would  break  one’s  cane  over  some 
people’s  liead-s,  if  one  got  the  chance.  In  wind  action  of  this 
kind  the  amount  of  actual  force  used  is  the  least  part  of  the 
business  ; — it  is  the  suddenness  of  its  concentration,  and  the 
lifting  and  twisting  strength,  as  of  a wrestler,  which  makes 
the  blast  fatal  ; #none  of  which  elements  of  storm-power  can 
be  recognised  by  mechanical  tests.  In  my  friend’s  next  letter, 
however,  he  gives  us  some  evidence  of  the  consistent  strength 
of  this  same  gale,  and  of  the  electric  conditions  which  at- 
tended it : — the  prefatory  notice  of  his  pet  bird  I had  meant 
for  ‘Love’s  Meinie,’  but  it  will  help  us  through  the  grimness 
of  our  studies  here. 


416 


THE  STORM-CLOUD  OF 


“ March  3rd,  1884. 

“ My  small  blackheaded  gull  Jack  is  still  flourishing,  and 
the  time  is  coming  when  I look  for  that  singularly  sudden 
change  in  the  plumage  of  his  head  which  took  place  last 
March.  I have  asked  all  my  ocean-going  friends  to  note 
whether  these  little  birds  are  not  the  gulls  par  excellence  of 
the  sea ; and  so  far  all  I have  heard  from  them  confirms 
this.  It  seems  almost  incredible  ; but  my  son,  a sailor,  who 
met  that  hurricane  of  the  26th  of  January,  writes  to  me  to 
say  that  out  in  the  Bay  of  Biscay  on  the  morning  after  the 
gale,  ‘though  it  was  blowing  like  blazes,  I observed  some 
little  gulls  of  Jacky’s  species,  and  they  followed  us  half  way 
across  the  Bay,  seeming  to  find  shelter  under  the  lee  of  our 
ship.  Some  alighted  now  and  then,  and  rested  upon  the 
water  as  if  tired.’  When  one  considers  that  these  birds  must 
have  been  at  sea  all  that  night  somewhere,  it  gives  one  a great 
idea  of  their  strength  and  endurance.  My  son's  ship,  though 
a powerful  ocean  steamer,  was  for  two  whole  hours  battling 
head  to  sea  off  the  Eddystone  that  night,  and  for  that  time 
the  lead  gave  no  increase  of  soundings,  so  that  she  could 
have  made  no  headway  during  those  two  hours  ; while  all  the 
time  her  yards  had  the  St.  Elmo’s  fire  at  their  ends,  looking 
as  though  a blue  light  was  burning  at  each  yard-arm,  and 
ffiis  was  about  all  they  could  see. 

“ Yours  sincerely, 

“Bobt.  C.  Leslie.” 

The  next  letter,  from  a correspondent  with  whom  I have 
the  most  complete  sympathy  in  some  expressions  of  his  post- 
script which  are  yet,  I consider,  more  for  my  own  private  ear 
than  for  the  public  eye,  describes  one  of  the  more  malignant 
phases  of  the  plague-wind,  which  I forgot  to  notice  in  my 
lecture. 

“Burnham,  Somerset,  Eebrury  7,  1884. 

“ Bear  Sir, — I read  with  great  interest  your  first  lecture  at 
Oxford  on  cloud  and  wind  (very  indifferently  reported  in 
‘ The  Times  ’).  You  have  given  a name  to  a wind  I’ve  known 
for  years.  You  call  it  the  plague — I call  it  the  devil-wind : 
e.g .,  on  April  29th,  1882,  morning  warmer,  then  rain  storms 
from  east ; afternoon,  rain  squalls  ; wind,  west  by  south, 
rough  ; barometer  falling  awfully ; 4.30  p.m.,  tremendous 
wind. — April  30th,  all  the  leaves  of  the  trees,  all  plants  black 


THE  NINETEENTH  CENTURY. \ 


417 


and  dead,  as  if  a fiery  blast  had  swept  over  them.  All  the 
hedges  on  windward  side  black  as  black  tea. 

“ Another  devil-wind  came  towards  the  end  of  last  summer. 
The  next  day,  all  the  leaves  were  falling  sere  and  yellow,  as  if 
it  were  late  autumn. 

“ I am,  dear  sir, 

“ Yours  faithfull}-, 

“A.  H.  Bxbeett.” 

I remember  both  these  blights  well ; they  were  entirely 
terrific;  but  only  sudden  maxima  of  the  constant  morbific 
power  of  this  wind, — which,  if  Mr.  Birkett  saw  my  personal 
notices  of,  intercalated  among  the  scientific  ones,  he  would 
find  alluded  to  in  terms  quite  as  vigorously  damning  as  he 
could  desire  : and  the  actual  effect  of  it  upon  my  thoughts 
and  work  has  been  precisely  that  which  would  have  resulted 
from  the  visible  phantom  of  an  evil  spirit,  the  absolute  oppo- 
nent of  the  Queen  of  the  Air, — Typhon  against  Athena,— in  a 
sense  of  'which  I had  neither  the  experience  nor  the  concep- 
tion when  I wrote  the  illustrations  of  the  myth  of  Perseus  in 
‘ Modern  Painters.’  Not  a word  of.  all  those  explanations  of 
Homer  and  Pindar  could  have  been  written  in  weather  like 
that  of  the  last  twelve  years  ; and  I am  most  thankful  to  have 
got  them  written  before  the  shadow  came,  and  I could  still 
see  what  Homer  and  Pindar  saw.  I quote  one  passage  only — 
Yol.  v.,  p.  160 — for  the  sake  of  a similitude  which  reminds 
me  of  one  more  thing  I have  to  say  here — and  a bit  of  its 
note — which  I think  is  a precious  little  piece,  not  of  word- 
painting,  but  of  simply  told  feeling — (that,  if  people  knew  it, 
is  my  real  power). 

“ On  the  Yorkshire  and  Derbyshire  hills,  when  the  rain- 
cloud  is  low  and  much  broken,  and  the  steady  west  wind 
fills  all  space  with  its  strength,*  the  sun-gleams  fly  like  golden 
vultures ; they  are  flashes  rather  than  shillings  ; the  dark 
spaces  and  the  dazzling  race  and  skim  along  the  acclivities, 
and  dart  and  dip  from  crag  to  dell,  swalloiv-like.” 

* “I  have  been  often  at  great  heights  on  the  Alps  in  rough  weather,  and 
have  seen  strong  gusts  of  storm  in  the  plains  of  the  south.  But,  to  get 
full  expression  of  the  very  heart  and  meaning  of  wind,  there  is  no  place 


418 


THE  STORM-CLOUD  OF 


The  dipping  of  the  shadows  here  described  of  course  is  caused 
only  by  that  of  the  dingles  they  cross  ; but  I have  not  in  any 
of  my  books  yet  dwelt  enough  on  the  difference  of  character 
between  the  dipping  and  the  mounting  winds.  Our  wildest 
phase  of  the  west  wind  here  at  Coniston  is  ‘ swallow-like  ’ with 
a vengeance,  coming  down  on  the  lake  in  swirls  which  spurn 
the  spray  under  them  as  a fiery  horse  does  the  dust.  On  the 
other  hand,  the  softly  ascending  winds  express  themselves  in 
the  grace  of  their  cloud  motion,  as  if  set  to  the  continuous 
music  of  a distant  song.* 

The  reader  will  please  note  also  that  whenever,  either  in 
‘ Modem  Painters  ’ or  elsewhere,  I speak  of  rate  of  flight  in 
clouds,  I am  thinking  of  it  as  measured  by  the  horizontal  dis- 
tance overpast  in  given  time,  and  not  as  apparent  only,  owing 
to  the  nearness  of  the  spectator.  All  low  clouds  appear  to 
move  faster  than  high  ones,  the  pace  being  supposed  equal  in 
both  : but  when  I speak  of  quick  or  slow  cloud,  it  is  always 
with  respect  to  a given  altitude.  In  a fine  summer  morning, 
a cloud  will  wait  for  you  among  the  pines,  folded  to  and  fro 


like  a Yorkshire  moor.  I think  Scottish  breezes  are  thinner,  very  bleak 
and  piercing,  but  not  substantial.  If  you  lean  on  them  they  will  let 
you  fall,  but  one  may  rest  against  a Yorkshire  breeze  as  one  would 
on  a quickset  hedge.  I shall  not  soon  forget, — having  had  the  good 
fortune  to  meet  a vigorous  one  on  an  April  morning,  between  Hawes  and 
Settle,  just  on  the  flat  under  Wharnside, — the  vague  sense  of  wonder 
with  which  I watched  Ingleborough  stand  without  rocking 
* Compare  Y/ords worth’s 

4 1 Oh  beauteous  birds,  methinks  ye  measure 
Your  movements  to  some  heavenly  tune.” 


And  again — 


“ While  the  mists, 

Flying  and  rainy  vapours,  call  out  shapes, 
And  phantoms  from  the  crags  and  solid  earth, 
As  fast  as  a musician  scatters  sounds 
Out  of  an  instrument.” 


And  again — 

“ The  Knight  had  ridden  down  from  Wensley  mocr.. 
With  the  slow  motion  of  a summer  cloud.  ” 


THE  NINETEENTH  CENTURY. 


419 


among  their  stems,  with  a branch  or  two  coming  ont  here,  and 
a spire  or  two  there  : you  walk  through  it,  and  look  back  to 
it.  At  another  time  on  the  same  spot,  the  fury  of  cloud-flood 
drifts  past  you  like  the  Rhine  at  Schaffhausen. 

The  space  even  of  the  double  lecture  does  not  admit  of  my 
entering  into  any  general  statement  of  the  action  of  the  plague- 
cloud  in  Switzerland  and  Italy  ; but  I must  not  omit  the  fob 
lowing  notes  of  its  aspect  in  the  high  Alps. 


“Sallenches,  lltli  September,  1882. 

“This  morning,  at  half-past  five,  the  Mont  Blanc  summit 
was  clear,  and  the  greater  part  of  the  Aiguilles  du  Plan  and 
Midi  clear  dark — all,  against  pure  cirri,  lighted  beneath  by 
sunrise  ; the  sun  of  course  not  visible  yet  from  the  valley. 

“ By  seven  o’clock,  the  plague-clouds  had  formed  in  brown 
flakes,  down  to  the  base  of  the  Aiguille  de  Bionassay  ; entirely 
covering  the  snowy  ranges ; the  sun,  as  it  rose  to  us  here, 
shone  only  for  about  ten  minutes — gilding  in  its  old  glory  the 
range  of  the  Dorons, — before  one  had  time  to  look  from  peak 
to  peak  of  it,  the  plague-cloud  formed  from  the  west,  hid 
Mont  Joli,  and  steadily  choked  the  valley  with  advancing 
streaks  of  dun-coloured  mist.  Now — twenty  minutes  to  nine 
— there  is  not  one  ray  of  sunshine  on  the  whole  valley,  or  on 
its  mountains,  from  the  Forclaz  down  to  Cluse. 

“ These  phenomena  are  only  the  sequel  of  a series  of  still 
more  strange  and  sad  conditions  of  the  air,  which  have  con- 
tinued among  the  Savoy  Alps  for  the  last  eight  days,  (them- 
selves the  sequel  of  others  yet  more  general,  prolonged,  and 
harmful).  But  the  weather  was  perfectly  fine  at  Dijon,  and  I 
doubt  not  at  Cliamouni,  on  the  1st  of  this  month.  On  the 
2nd,  in  the  evening,  I saw,  from  the  Jura,  heavy  thunder- 
clouds in  the  west ; on  the  3rd,  the  weather  broke  at  Morez, 
in  hot  thunder-showers,  with  intervals  of  scorching  sun  ; on 
the  4th,  5th,  and  6th  there  was  nearly  continuous  rain  at  St. 
Cergues,  the  Alps  being  totally  invisible  all  the  time.  The 
sky  cleared  on  the  night  of  the  6tli,  and  on  the  7th  I saw  from 
the  top  of  the  Dole  all  the  western  plateaux  of  Jura  quite 
clearly  ; but  the  entire  range  of  the  Alps,  from  the  Moleson  to 
the  Sal6ve,  and  all  beyond, — snow,  crag,  and  hill-side, — were 
wrapped  and  buried  in  one  unbroken  grey-brown  winding- 
sheet,  of  such  cloud  as  I had  never  seen  till  that  day  touch  an 
Alpine  summit . 


420 


THE  STORM-CLOUD  OF 


“ The  wind,  from  the  east,  (so  that  it  blew  up  over  the  edge 
of  the  Dole  cliff,  and  admitted  of  perfect  shelter  on  the  slope 
to  the  west,)  wras  bitter  cold,  and  extremely  violent : the  sun 
overhead,  bright  enough,  and  remained  so  during  the  after- 
noon ; the  plague-cloud  reaching  from  the  Alps  only  about  as 
far  as  the  southern  shore  of  the  lake  of  Geneva  ; but  we  could 
not  see  the  Saleve  ; nor  even  the  north  shore,  farther  than  to 
Morges ! I reached  the  Col  de  la  Faucille  at  sunset,  when, 
for  a few  minutes,  the  Mont  Blanc  and  Aiguille  Verte  showed 
themselves  in  dull  red  light,  but  were  buried  again,  before  the 
sun  was  quite  down,  in  the  rising  deluge  of  cloud-poison.  I 
saw  no  farther  than  the  Yoirons  and  Brezon — and  scarcely 
those,  during  the  electric  heat  of  the  9th  at  Geneva  ; and  last 
Saturday  and  Sunday  have  been  mere  whirls  and  drifts  of  in- 
decisive, but  always  sullen,  storm.  This  morning  I saw  the 
snows  clear  for  the  first  time,  having  been,  during  the  whole 
past  week,  on  steady  watch  for  them. 

“ I have  written  that  the  clouds  of  the  7th  were  such  as  I 
never  before  saw  on  the  Alps.  Often,  during  the  past  ten 
years,  I have  seen  them  on  my  own  hills,  and  in  Italy  in  1874  ; 
but  it  has  always  chanced  to  be  fine  weather,  or  common  rain 
and  cold,  when  I have  been  among  the  snowy  chains  ; and  now 
from  the  Dole  for  the  first  time  I saw  the  plague-cloud  on  them." 

20.  ‘Blasphemy.’ — If  the  reader  can  refer  to  my  papers  on 
Fiction  in  the  ‘ Nineteenth  Century,’  he  will  find  this  word 
carefully  defined  in  its  Scriptural,  and  evermore  necessary, 
meaning, — ‘Harmful  speaking’ — not  against  God  only,  but 
against  man,  and  against  all  the  good  -works  and  purposes  of 
Nature.  The  word  is  accurately  opposed  to  ‘ Euphemy,’  the 
right  or  well-speaking  of  God  and  His  world  ; and  the  two 
id  odes  of  speech  are  those  which  going  out  of  the  mouth 
sanctify  or  defile  the  man. 

Going  out  of  the  mouth,  that  is  to  say,  deliberately  and  of 
purpose.  A French  postilion’s  * Sacr-r-re  ’ — loud,  with  the 
low  ‘ Nom  de  Dieu  ’ following  between  his  teeth,  is  not 
blasphemy,  unless  against  his  horse ; — but  Mr.  Thackeray’s 
close  of  his  Waterloo  chapter  in  ‘Vanity  Fair,’  “And  all  the 
night  long  Amelia  was  praying  for  George,  who  was  lying  on 
his  face  dead  with  a bullet  through  his  heart,”  is  blasphemy 
of  the  most  fatal  and  subtle  kind. 


THE  NINETEENTH  CENTURY . 


421 


And  the  universal  instinct  of  blasphemy  in  the  modern  vul< 
gar  scientific  mind  is  above  all  manifested  in  its  love  of  what 
is  ugly,  and  natural  enthralment  by  the  abominable ; — so  that  it 
is  ten  to  one  if,  in  the  description  of  a new  bird,  you  learn 
much  more  of  it  than  the  enumerated  species  of  vermin  that 
stick  to  its  feathers  ; and  in  the  natural  history  museum  of 
Oxford,  humanity  has  been  hitherto  taught,  not  by  portraits 
of  great  men,  but  by  the  skulls  of  cretins. 

But  the  deliberate  blasphemy  of  scienc^the  assertion  of  its 
own  virtue  and  dignity  against  the  always  implied,  and  often 
asserted,  vileness  of  all  men  and — Gods, — heretofore,  is  the 
most  wonderful  phenomenon,  so  far  as  I can  read  or  perceive, 
that  hitherto  has  arisen  in  the  always  marvellous  course  of 
the  world’s  mental  history. 

Take,  for  brief  general  type,  the  following  92nd  paragraph 
of  the  ‘Forms  of  Water  ’ : — 

“ But  while  we  thus  acknowledge  our  limits,  there  is  also 
reason  for  wonder  at  the  extent  to  which  Science  has  mastered 
the  system  of  nature.  From  age  to  age  and  from  generation 
to  generation,  fact  has  been  added  to  fact  and  law  to  law,  the 
true  method  and  order  of  the  Universe  being  thereby  more 
and  more  revealed.  In  doing  this,  Science  has  encountered 
and  overthrown  various  forms  of  superstition  and  deceit,  of 
credulity  and  imposture.  But  the  world  continually  produces 
weak  persons  and  wicked  persons,  and  as  long  as  they  con- 
tinue to  exist  side  by  side,  as  they  do  in  this  our  day,  very 
debasing  beliefs  will  also  continue  to  infest  the  world.” 

The  debasing  beliefs  meant  being  simply  those  of  Homer, 
David,  and  St.  John  * — as  against  a modern  French  gamin’s. 
And  what  the  results  of  the  intended  education  of  English 
gamins  of  every  degree  in  that  new  higher  theology  will  be, 
England  is  I suppose  by  this  time  beginning  to  discern. 

In  the  last  ‘ Fors  f ’ which  I have  written,  on  education  of  a 

* With  all  who  died  in  Faith,  not  having  received  the  Promises,  nor- 
according  to  your  modern  teachers — ever  to  receive. 

f Hence  to  the  end  the  text  is  that  read  in  termination  of  the  lecture 
on  its  second  delivery,  only  with  an  added  word  or  two  of  comment  on 
Proverbs  xvii. 


422 


THE  STORM-CLOUD  OF 


safer  kind,  still  possible,  one  practical  point  is  insisted  on 
chiefly, — that  learning  by  heart,  and  repetition  with  perfect 
accent  and  cultivated  voice,  should  be  made  quite  principal 
branches  of  school  discipline  up  to  the  time  of  going  to  the 
university. 

And  of  writings  to  be  learned  by  heart,  among  other  pas- 
sages of  disputable  philosophy  and  perfect  poetry,  I include 
certain  chapters  of  the — now  for  the  most  part  forgotten — 
wisdom  of  Solomon  ; and  of  these,  there  is  one  selected  por- 
tion which  I should  recommend  not  only  schoolboys  and  girls, 
but  persons  of  every  age,  if  they  don’t  know  it,  to  learn  forth- 
with, as  the  shortest  summary  of  Solomon’s  wisdom  ; — namely, 
the  seventeenth  chapter  of  Proverbs,  which  being  only  twenty- 
eight  verses  long,  may  be  fastened  in  the  dullest  memory  at 
the  rate  of  a verse  a day  in  the  shortest  month  of  the  year. 
Out  of  the  twenty-eight  verses,  I will  read  you  seven,  for  ex- 
ample of  their  tenor, — the  last  of  the  seven  I will  with  your 
good  leave  dwell  somewhat  upon.  You  have  heard  the  verses 
often  before,  but  probably  without  remembering  that  they  are 
all  in  this  concentrated  chapter. 

1.  Verse  1. — Better  is  a dry  morsel,  and  quietness  there- 

with, than  a house  full  of  good  eating,  with  strife. 

(Remember,  in  reading  this  verse,  that  though  Eng- 
land has  chosen  the  strife,  and  set  every  man’s  hand 
against  his  neighbour,  her  house  is  not  yet  so  full  of 
good  eating  as  she  expected,  even  though  she  gets  half 
of  her  victuals  from  America.) 

2.  Verse  3. — The  fining  pot  is  for  silver,  the  furnace  for 

gold,  but  the  Lord  tries  the  heart. 

(Notice  the  increasing  strength  of  trial  for  the  more 
precious  thing : only  the  melting-pot  for  the  silver — 
the  fierce  furnace  for  the  gold — but  the  Fire  of  the 
Lord  for  the  heart.) 

3.  Verse  4. — A wicked  doer  giveth  heed  to  false  lips. 

(That  means,  for  you , that,  intending  to  live  by  usury 
and  swindling,  you  read  Mr.  Adam  Smith  and  Mr.  $tu< 
art  Mill,  and  other  such  political  economists). 


THE  NINE  TEEN  TIL  CENTURY. 


423 


4 Verse  5. — Whoso  mocketh  the  poor,  reproacheth  his 
Maker. 

(Mocketh, — by  saying  that  his  poverty  is  his  fault, 
no  less  than  his  misfortune, — England’s  favourite  the- 
ory now-a-days.) 

5.  Verse  12. — Let  a bear  robbed  of  her  whelps  meet  a man, 

rather  than  a fool  in  his  folly. 

(Carlyle  is  often  now  accused  of  false  scorn  in  his 
calling  the  passengers  over  London  Bridge,  “mostly 
fools,” — on  the  ground  that  men  are  only  to  be  justly 
held  foolish  if  their  intellect  is  under,  as  only  wise 
when  it  is  above,  the  average.  But  the  reader  will 
please  observe  that  the  essential  function  of  modern 
education  is  to  develope  wThat  capacity  of  mistake  a 
man  has.  Leave  him  at  his  forge  and  plough, — and 
those  tutors  teach  him  his  true  value,  indulge  him  in 
no  error,  and  provoke  him  to  no  vice.  But  take  him 
up  to  London, — give  him  her  papers  to  read,  and  her 
talk  to  hear, — and  it  is  fifty  to  one  you  send  him  pres- 
ently on  a fool’s  errand  over  London  Bridge.) 

6.  Now  listen,  for  this  verse  is  the  question  you  have  mainly 

to  ask  yourselves  about  your  beautiful  all-over-England 
system  of  competitive  examination  : — 

Verse  16.  Wherefore  is  there  a price  in  the  hand  of  a 
fool  to  get  wisdom,  seeing  he  hath  no  heart  to  it  ? 

(You  know  perfectly  well  it  isn’t  the  wisdom  you 
want,  but  the  “ station  in  life,” — and  the  money !) 

7 Lastly,  Verse  24. — Wisdom  is  before  him  that  hath  un- 
derstanding, but  the  eyes  of  a fool  are  in  the  ends  of 
the  earth. 

“ And  in  the  beginnings  of  it  ” ! Solomon  would 
have  written,  had  he  lived  in  our  day  ; but  we  will  be 
content  with  the  ends  at  present.  No  scientific  peo- 
ple, as  I told  you  at  first,  have  taken  any  notice  of  the 
more  or  less  temporary  phenomena  of  which  I have  to- 
night given  you  register.  But,  from  the  constant  ar- 
rangements of  the  universe,  the  same  respecting  which 
the  thinkers  of  former  time  came  to  the  conclusion  that 
n 


424 


TEE  STORM-CLOUD  OF 


they  were  essentially  good,  and  to  end  in  good,  the 
modem  speculator  arrives  at  the  quite  opposite  and 
extremely  uncomfortable  conclusion  that  they  are  es- 
sentially evil,  and  to  end — in  nothing. 

And  I have  here  a volume,*  before  quoted,  by  a very  foolish 
and  very  lugubrious  author,  who  in  his  concluding  chapter 
gives  us, — founded,  you  will  observe,  on  a series  of  ‘ ifs,’ — the 
latest  scientific  views  concerning  the  order  of  creation.  “We 
have  spoken  already  about  a medium  pervading  space  ” — this 
is  the  Scientific  God,  you  observe,  differing  from  the  unscien- 
tific one,  in  that  the  purest  in  heart  cannot  see — nor  the  soft- 
est in  heart  feel — this  spacious  Deity — a Medium  pervading 
space — “ the  office  of  which  ” (italics  all  mine)  “ appears  to  be 
to  degrade  and  ultimately  extinguish , all  differential  motion. 
It  has  been  wrell  pointed  out  by  Thomson,  that,  looked  at  in 
this  light , the  universe  is  a system  that  had  a beginning  and 
must  have  an  end,  for  a process  of  degradation  cannot  be 
eternal.  If  we  could  view  the  Universe  as  a candle  not  lit, 
then  it  is  perhaps  conceivable  to  regard  it  as  having  been  al- 
ways in  existence  ; but  if  we  regard  it  rather  as  a candle  that 
has  been  lit,  we  become  absolutely  certain  that  it  cannot  have 
been  burning  from  eternity,  and  that  a time  will  come  when 
it  will  cease  to  burn.  We  are  led  to  look  to  a beginning  in 
which  the  particles  of  matter  were  in  a diffuse  chaotic  state, 
but  endowed  with  the  power  of  gravitation  ; and  we  are  led 
to  look  to  an  end  in  which  the  whole  Universe  will  be  one 
equally  heated  inert  mass,  and  from  which  everything  like  life, 
or  motion , or  beauty,  will  have  utterly  gone  away  .” 

Do  you  wish  me  to  congratulate  you  on  this  extremely 
cheerful  result  of  telescopic  and  microscopic  observation,  and 
so  at  once  close  my  lecture  ? or  may  I venture  yet  to  trespass 
on  your  time  by  stating  to  you  any  of  the  more  comfortable 
views  held  by  persons  who  did  not  regard  the  universe  in 
what  my  author  humorously  calls  “ this  light  ” ? 

In  the  peculiarly  characteristic  notice  with  which  the 
1 Daily  News  ’ honoured  my  last  week’s  lecture,  that  courte* 
* ‘The  Conservation  of  Energy.’  King  and  Co.,  1878. 


THE  NINETEENTH  CENTURY. 


425 


ous  journal  charged  me,  in  the  metaphorical  term  now  classi- 
cal on  Exchange,  with  “ hedging,”  to  conceal  my  own  opin- 
ions. The  charge  was  not  prudently  chosen,  since,  of  all 
men  now  obtaining  any  portion  of  popular  regard,  I am 
pretty  well  known  to  be  precisely  the  one  who  cares  least 
either  for  hedge  or  ditch,  when  he  chooses  to  go  across  coum 
try.  It  is  certainly  true  that  I have  not  the  least  mind  to  pin 
my  heart  on  my  sleeve,  for  the  daily  daw,  or  nightly  owl,  to 
peck  at ; but  the  essential  reason  for  my  not  telling  you  my 
own  opinions  on  this  matter  is — that  I do  not  consider  them 
of  material  consequence  to  you. 

It  might  possibly  be  of  some  advantage  for  you  to  know 
what — were  he  now  living,  Orpheus  would  have  thought,  or 
JEschylus,  or  a Daniel  come  to  judgment,  or  John  the  Baptist, 
or  John  the  Son  of  Thunder ; but  what  either  you,  or  I,  or 
any  other  Jack  or  Tom  of  us  all,  think, — even  if  we  knew 
what  to  think, — is  of  extremely  small  moment  either  to  the 
Gods,  the  clouds,  or  ourselves. 

Of  myself,  however,  if  you  care  to  hear  it,  I will  tell  you 
thus  much  : that  had  the  weather  when  I was  young  been 
such  as  it  is  now,  no  book  such  as  * Modern  Painters  * ever 
would  or  could  have  been  written  ; for  every  argument,  and 
every  sentiment  in  that  book,  was  founded  on  the  personal 
experience  of  the  beauty  and  blessing  of  nature,  all  spring 
and  summer  long ; and  on  the  then  demonstrable  fact  that 
over  a great  portion  of  the  world’s  surface  the  air  and  the 
earth  were  fitted  to  the  education  of  the  spirit  of  man  as 
closely  as  a schoolboy’s  primer  is  to  his  labour,  and  as  glori- 
ously as  a lover’s  mistress  is  to  his  eyes. 

That  harmony  is  now  broken,  and  broken  the  world  round  : 
fragments,  indeed,  of  what  existed  still  exist,  and  hours  of 
what  is  past  still  return  ; but  month  by  month  the  darkness 
gains  upon  the  day,  and  the  ashes  of  the  Antipodes  glare 
through  the  night,* 

* Written  under  the  impression  that  the  lurid  and  prolonged  sunsets 
of  last  autumn  has  been  proved  to  be  connected  with  the  flight  of  vol- 
canic ashes.  This  has  been  since,  I hear,  disproved  again.  Whatever 
their  cause,  those  sunsets  were,  in  the  sense  in  which  I myself  use  the 


*26 


THE  STORM-CLOUD  OF 


What  consolation,  or  what  courage,  through  plague,  dan-, 
ger  or  darkness,  you  can  find  in  the  conviction  that  you  are 
nothing  more  than  brute  beasts  driven  by  brute  forces,  your 
other  tutors  can  tell  you — not  I : but  this  I can  tell  you — and 
with  the  authority  of  all  the  masters  of  thought  since  time 
was  time, — that,  while  by  no  manner  of  vivisection  you  can 
learn  what  a Beast  is,  by  only  looking  into  your  own  hearts 
you  may  know  what  a Man  is, — and  know  that  his  only  true 
happiness  is  to  live  in  Hope  of  something  to  be  won  by  him, 

word,  altogether  ‘ unnatural  ’ and  terrific : but  they  have  no  connection 
with  the  far  more  fearful,  because  protracted  and  increasing,  power  of 
the  Plague- wind.  The  letter  from  White’s  ‘ History  of  Selborne,* 
quoted  by  the  Rev.  W.  R.  Andrews  in  his  letter  to  the  ‘Times,’  (dated 
January  8th)  seems  to  describe  aspects  of  the  sky  like  these  of  1883, 
just  a hundred  years  before,  in  1783  : and  also  some  of  the  circum- 
stances noted,  especially  the  variation  of  the  wind  to  all  quarters  with- 
out alteration  in  the  air,  correspond  with  the  character  of  the  plague- 
wind ; but  the  fog  of  1783  made  the  sun  dark,  with  iron-coloured  rays 
— not  pale,  with  blanching  rays.  I subjoin  Mr.  Andrews’  letter,  ex- 
tremely valuable  in  its  collation  of  the  records  of  simultaneous  volcanic 
phenomena  ; praying  the  reader  also  to  observe  the  instantaneous  ac- 
knowledgment, by  the  true  ‘Naturalist,’  of  horror  in  the  violation  of 
beneficent  natural  law. 

“THE  RECENT  SUNSETS  AND  VOLCANIC  ERUPTIONS.” 

“ Sir, — It  may,  perhaps,  be  interesting  at  the  present  time,  when  so 
much  attention  has  been  given  to  the  late  brilliant  sunsets  and  sun- 
rises, to  be  reminded  that  almost  identically  the  same  appearances  were 
observed  just  a hundred  years  ago. 

“ Gilbert  White  writes  in  the  year  1783,  in  his  109th  letter,  published 
in  his  ‘ Natural  History  of  Selborne  ’ : — 

“ ‘The  summer  of  the  year  1783  was  an  amazing  and  portentous  one, 
and  full  of  horrible  phenomena  ; for  besides  the  alarming  meteors  and 
tremendous  thunderstorms  that  affrighted  and  distressed  the  different 
eounties  of  this  kingdom,  the  peculiar  haze  or  smoky  fog  that  prevailed 
for  many  weeks  in  this  island  and  in  every  part  of  Europe,  and  even 
beyond  its  limits,  was  a most  extraordinary  appearance,  unlike  anything 
known  within  the  memory  of  man.  By  my  journal  I find  that  I had 
noticed  this  strange  occurrence  from  June  23rd  to  July  20th  inclusive, 
during  which  period  the  wind  varied  to  every  quarter  without  making 
any  alteration  in  the  air.  The  sun  at  noon  looked  as  black  as  a clouded 


THE  NINETEENTH  CENTURY. 


427 

in  Reverence  of  something  to  be  worshipped  by  him,  and  in 
Love  of  something  to  be  cherished  by  him,  and  cherished — • 
for  ever. 

Having  these  instincts,  his  only  rational  conclusion  is  that 
the  objects  which  can  fulfil  them  may  be  by  his  effort  gained, 
and  by  his  faith  discerned ; and  his  only  earthly  wisdom  is  to 
accept  the  united  testimony  of  the  men  who  have  sought  these 
things  in  the  way  they  were  commanded.  Of  whom  no  single 
one  has  ever  said  that  his  obedience  or  his  faith  had  been 

moon,  and  slied  a ferruginous  light  on  the  ground  and  floors  of  rooms, 
hut  was  particularly  lurid  and  hlood-coloured  at  rising  and  setting. 
The  country  people  began  to  look  with  a superstitious  awe  at  the  red 
lowering  aspect  of  the  sun  ; and,  indeed,  there  was  reason  for  the  most 
enlightened  person  to  be  apprehensive,  for  all  the  while  Calabria  and 
part  of  the  Isle  of  Sicily  were  torn  and  convulsed  with  earthquakes,  and 
about  that  juncture  a volcano  sprang  out  of  the  sea  on  the  coast  of  Nor- 
way.’ 

Other  writers  also  mention  volcanic  disturbances  in  this  same  year, 
1788.  We  are  told  by  Lyell  and  Geikie,  that  there  were  great  volcanic 
eruptions  in  and  near  Iceland.  A submarine  volcano  burst  forth  in  the 
sea,  thirty  miles  south-west  of  Iceland,  which  ejected  so  much  pumice 
that  the  ocean  was  covered  with  this  substance,  to  the  distance  of  150 
miles,  and  ships  were  considerably  impeded  in  their  course  ; and  a new 
island  was  formed,  from  which  fire  and  smoke  and  pumice  were 
emitted. 

“Besides this  submarine  eruption, the  volcano  Skaptar-Jokull,  on  the 
mainland,  on  June  lltli,  1783,  threw  out  a torrent  of  lava,  so  immense 
as  to  surpass  in  magnitude  the  bulk  of  Mont  Blanc,  and  ejected  so  vast 
an  amount  of  fine  dust,  that  the  atmosphere  over  Iceland  continued 
loaded  with  it  for  months  afterwards.  It  fell  in  such  quantities  over 
parts  of  Caithness — a distance  of  600  miles — as  to  destroy  the  crops,  and 
that  year  is  still  spoken  of  by  the  inhabitants  as  the  year  of  ‘the  ashie.’ 

“ These  particulars  are  gathered  from  the  text-books  of  Lyell  and 
Geikie. 

“ I am  not  aware  whether  the  coincidence  in  time  of  the  Icelandic 
eruptions,  and  of  the  peculiar  appearance  of  the  sun,  described  by  Gil- 
bert White,  has  yet  been  noticed : but  this  coincidence  may  very  well 
be  taken  as  some  little  evidence  towards  explaining  the  connexion  be- 
tween the  recent  beautiful  sunsets  and  the  tremendous  volcanic  explo- 
sion of  the  Isle  of  Krakatoa  in  August  last. 

“ W.  It.  Andrews,  F.G  S. 

“ Teffont  Ewyas  Rectory,  Salisbury,  January  8th.” 


4-28  STORM-CLOUD  OF  THE  NINETEENTH  CENTURY . 


vain,  or  found  himself  cast  out  from  the  choir  of  the  living 
souls,  whether  here,  or  departed,  for  whom  the  song  was  writ- 
ten : — 

God  be  merciful  unto  us,  and  bless  us,  and  cause  His  face 
to  shine  upon  us  ; 

That  Thy  way  may  be  known  upon  earth,  Thy  saving  health 
among  all  nations. 

Oh  let  the  nations  rejoice  and  sing  for  joy,  for  Thou  shalt 
judge  the  people  righteously  and  govern  the  nations 
. upon  earth. 

Then  shall  the  earth  yield  her  increase,  and  God,  even 
our  own  God,  shall  bless  us. 

God  shall  bless  us,  and  all  the  ends  of  the  earth  shall  fear 
Him. 


INDEX 


Abbeville,  sunset  at,  October  1,  1868  (Diagram  1),  876,  888,  405-406, 

Abingdon,  plague-wind  at,  885. 

Age,  good  liumour  should  increase  with,  889. 

Alps,  plague-cloud  in  the  high  (1882),  418  seq. ; storm  in  Val  d’ Aosta 
(Diagram  4),  882  ; sunset  and  sunrise  amongst,  colours  of,  375, 
403-404. 

American  meat,  etc  , in  England,  422. 

Andrews,  Rev.  W.  R. , letter  to  author  on  sunsets,  1883,  422  n. 

Anemometer,  value  of  the,  390. 

Author,  the.  (a)  Personal. — At  Avallon,  sees  “ Faust,”  387 ; at  Ayles- 
bury, May  26-27,  1875,  384;  his  book  of  Boticelli  and  Mantegna 
drawings,  394  ; helped  by  chance,  394  ; his  character,  not  always 
ill-humoured,  389  ; and  the  Franco-Prussian  war,  386;  geology  of, 
plans  for  a Grammar  of  Ice  and  Air,”  409  ; at  Herne  Hill,  March 
12.  1884,  pref. , 862;  his  imaginative  vision,  pref.,  361  ; solitude 
and  leisure  of,  361  ; at  Vevay,  1872,  884  ; weather  as  influencing, 
385,  417,  425  ; as  observed  by,  365. 

(b)  Writing  of.  — His  ‘command  of  language ” means  careful 
thought,  410  ; his  power  not  eloquence  but  simple  statement  of 
feeling,  417  ; description  of  colour  not  due  to  his  mental  state. 
405  ; does  not  “ hedge  ” in  what  he  says,  425 ; diary  quoted  on 
conditions  of  weather: — 


Bolton,  July  4,  1875  . . , 

page  383 

Ooniston,  June  22,  1870  . , 

“ 389 

“ June  25-0,  1S76  . 

“ 388 

“ July  16,  1876 

“ 381-388 

“ August  13,  1879  . . 

“ 389-390 

“ August  17,  1879 

• 

“ 390 

SAlenches.  September  11,  1882  . 

• 

• 

“ 419 

Coniston,  February  22,  1883 

• 

• 

•*  390 

(c)  Books  of  quoted  or  referred  to 

Art  of  England, on  clouds,  367,  401. 

Eagle’s  Nest,”  on  cumulus  cloud,  over  Westminster,  382  ; on 
light,  380. 

Fiction  Fair  and  Foul,”  on  blasphemy,  420. 

Fors  Clavigera,”  on  education,  421  ; July  and  August,  1871,  on 
the  plague-wind,  383-386. 

Modern  Painters,”  could  not  have  been  written  in  bad  weather, 
as  its  argument  depends  on  the  glory  of  nature,  425  ; quoted 
on  cloud  formation,  398  ; on  the  lee  side  cloud  (v.  129),  401- 
402 ; on  cloud  outline,  405  ; on  cloud  temperature,  408  ; on 


430 


INDEX ; 


dawn  and  rain- cloud,  395  ; v.  128,  on  Matterliorn  and  chilled 
vapour,  399;  v.  145,  on  “Perseus”  myth,  417;  on  Turner's 
symbolic  use  of  scarlet,  396. 

44  Queen  of  the  Air,”  417. 

‘‘Storm-Cloud  of  Nineteenth  Century,”  how  written,  pref.  393  j 
newspaper  reports  of,  361  ; its  observation  true,  361 ; title  of, 
365. 

Aqueous  Molecules,  different  kinds  of,  373. 

Aristophanes’  “Clouds,”  399. 

Astrology,  Clialdsean,  its  warnings  distinct,  its  promises  deceitful,  396. 

Avallon,  author  at,  sees  “ Faust,"  387. 


Bawdier  a della  Morte.  the,  374. 

Barrett,  Mr.  Wilson,  provides  limelight  for  author's  lecture,  375. 
Beleses,  Byron’s  *’  Sardanapalus,”  368-369. 

Bible,  quoted : 


“ Let  there  be  light  ” Genesis  i.  3 . . page  409 

“ Rejoice  as  a giant  to  rnn  his  course”  ....  Psalin  xix.  5 . “ 410 

4i  Deus  misereatnr  ” quoted Psalm  lxvii.  . “ 428 

“ He  that  planted  the  ear,  shall  he  not  hear?  ” , . Psalm  xeiv.  9 . “ 480 

Proverbs,  xvii.  1,  3,  4,  5,  12,  1(5,  24,  commented  on  .....“  402 

“ The  stars  shall  withdraw  their  shining  ”...  Joel  ii.  10  . “ 302 

“ Bring  ye  all  the  tithes  into  the  storehouse”  . . . Malachi  iii.  10  . “ 393 

That  which  cometh  oitt  of  the  mouth  defileth  a man  ” . Matthew  xv.  11  “ 420 

“ Peace,  be  still  ” Mark  iv.  39  . . “ .31)2 

“ Filling  our  hearts  with  food  and  gladness  ” . . . Acts  xiv.  17  . . “ 367 

“ These  all  died  in  the  faith  not  having  received  promises  ” Hebrews  xi.  13  . “ 422n 


Bee  Joshua. 

Billiard  ball,  does  not  shiver  on  its  own  account,  380,  409. 
Biekett,  A H.,  letter  to  author  on  plague-wind,  416-417. 

Bise,  the,  wind  of  Provence,  384,  386. 

Blasphemy,  meaning  of,  420 ; of  science,  421 ; in  Thackeray,  420. 
Blight,  caused  by  plague  wind.  416-417. 

Bolton,  July  4,  1875,  author  at,  383-384. 

Book,  Florentine,  bought  by  author  against  British  Museum  for  £1000, 
395. 

Brantwood.  See  Coniston. 

Byron,  liis  accuracy  of  observation,  “ deepeuiug  clouds,”  395  ; the  last 
Englishman  who  loved  Greece,  368,  395;  on  the  sun,  “burning 
oracle,”  396  ; on  superstition,  396;  “Sardanapalus”  quoted,  368- 
369. 


Carlyle’s  “mostly  fools”  quoted,  463. 

ClIALDySAN  astrology,  396. 

Chapman’s  “Homer,”  quoted,  402-403. 

Cleopatra’s  needle,  399. 

Clouds,  ancient  idea  of,  366  ; bad  and  fair  weather,  370  ; black,  401  ; 
colour  of.  how  caused,  374  seq.  ; cumulus  and  cirrus,  382-383 ; 
“deepening”  (Byron).  395  ; defined,  370  aeq.;  drift,  399;  electric, 
405  ; flight  of,  author  on  the.  418  ; formation  of.  408  ; glacial,  406; 
golden  lining  of.  403  ; green,  rare  376-377  ; leeside.  401  ; liter- 
ature, gi’eat  on,  367  seq. ; on  mountain  tops,  397,  399  400;  pris- 
matic, 376,  379;  stationary,  367-368;  stationary  and  fast-flying. 


INDEX. 


431 


3Y8,  405.  418-419  ; sunlight  on  opaque  and  transparent,  its  colour, 
375;  visible  when  existent,  371,  373  ; windy,  and  windless,  405. 
Colling  wood,  W.  G.  (diagram  5),  391. 

Colour,  diffracted,  too  bright  to  be  painted,  375,  378,  404 ; inherent 
and  reflected,  403  and  note  ; of  sun  on  white  objects,  375. 
Competitive  examinations,  423. 

Contston,  the  “ Eaglet  ” at,  390  ; gale  at,  showing  force  of  wind,  415  ; 
hills,  388;  lake  frozen,  1878-9,  388 ; lake  in  winds,  390 ; Old  Man, 
377;  plague-wind  at,  389  teq.;  sunset,  August  6,  1880,  377,  388  ; 
weather,  388. 

Correggio  alone  could  paint  rain-cloud  at  dawn,  395. 

Cunningham’s  “Strait  of  Magellan,”  sunset  desmibed  in,  403  and  n. 

“ Daily  News”  on  the  “ Storm-Cloud  ” lecture,  424. 

Dante,  “ Divina  Commedia  ’ referred  to  on  vapour  and  cloud,  393, 
Dawn,  description  of,  “Modern  Painters,”  393-394. 

Delphic  oracle  deceptive,  395. 

De  Saussure,  observant  and  descriptive,  365  ; on  cloud-capped  moun® 
tains,  400. 

Diagram  1. — Abbeville,  October  1,  1868,  sunset,  376,  406. 

“ 2. — Brantwood,  August  6,  1880,  sunset,  377,  381,  405. 

“ 3. — Verona  to  Brescia,  twilight,  1845,  381. 

“ 4. — Val  d’Aosta,  storm,  382. 

“ 5. — Herne  Hill,  sunset,  391. 

Diffraction  of  light,  376,  404. 

“Eaglet,”  the,  Coniston,  390. 

Education,  modern,  421 ; its  object  a good  position  in  life,  423. 
Energy,  right  use  of  the  word,  410,  411. 

England,  the  Empire  of  modern,  one  on  which  the  sun  never  rises, 

392  ; refusal  of,  to  give  Greece  a king,  395 ; religion  of,  God  denied, 

393  ; wealth  of.  imports  necessaries  of  life  from  America,  422. 

Faith,  never  found  vain,  428. 

Fan,  action  on  the  air  of  a 412. 

“ Faust,”  at  Avallon,  author  sees,  387. 

“ Fiat  lux,  fiat  anima,”  380. 

Fog,  in  London,  372,  373  ; at  Coniston,  389. 

Fors,  author  aided  by,  394. 

Franco-Prussian  War,  author  on  the,  386, 

French  oaths,  not  blasphemy,  420-421. 

Glacier  motion,  Tyndall  on,  411. 

Gladstone,  W.  E.,  love  of  Homer,  395. 

Gloom,  moral  and  physical,  392-393. 

Gould’s  “British  Birds,”  illustrations  to,  395. 

Gravitation,  the  law,  and  of  growth,  373. 

Greece,  Byron's  love  of  (see  Byron)  ; England’s  refusal  to  give  her  a 
king,  395. 

Gulls,  sea,  416. 

Haze,  and  the  wind,  874. 

Heart,  the,  its  life  and  faith,  366.  See  Education 
Heliometer,  391. 


432 


INDEX. 


Herne  Hill,  author  at,  pref.,  862 ; old-fashioned  sunset  at,  391. 

Hill,  G.  B., letter  to  author  on  stationary  clouds,  368,  401. 

Homer,  quoted,  II.  iv.,  on  black  clouds,  401  ; II.  v.,  on  motionless 
clouds,  367. 

Horace,  quoted,  396. 

Humboldt,  author  reading,  388. 

Humour,  good,  in  old  age,  389. 

Huxley,  Prof. , ascent  of  Mt.  Blanc,  405. 

Imaginative  vision,  its  nobility,  pref.,  361. 

Infidelity,  modern,  392,  421-422. 

Instruments,  eyes  better  than  any,  390,  415  seq. 

Italian  school,  backgrounds  of,  381. 

Joanie  (Mrs.  Arthur  Severn),  388. 

Joshua  at  Ascalon,  392. 

Jura,  St.  Laurent,  reflection  of  light  on,  404-405 ; weather  on  the, 
plague-wind,  419. 

Language,  and  thought,  409-410. 

Learning  by  heart,  421-422. 

Leslie,  R.  C.,  letters  to  author  on  the  weather,  etc.,  413,  416. 

Light,  atmosphere  transmissive  but  unreflective  of,  373  ; reflection, 
etc.,  of,  376  ; modern  science  and  “ Let  there  be  light,”  409  ; moral 
science  of,  381 ; a sensation  only,  380. 

London,  education  of  life  in,  423  ; fog,  370,  371  ; may  have  to  be 
roofed  over,  873;  sunset,  391. 

Man,  his  true  happiness  in  admiration,  hope,  and  love,  426-427. 
Manchester  darkness,  389. 

Mars,  redness  of,  and  its  meaning,  395. 

Matterhorn,  Tyndall  on  the,  339. 

Milan  cathedral,  floor  of,  388  ; whiteness  of,  875. 

Mill,  J.  S.,  his  political  economy,  422. 

Mist,  definition  of,  373. 

Modernism.  See  Infidelity. 

Molecules,  aqueous,  374,  418  ; and  the  sky,  408. 

Mountains,  cloud-capped,  398-400 ; “ sink  by  their  own  weight  ” (Tyn- 
dall), 399. 

Myrrha,  Byron’s  “ Sardanapalus,”  368-369. 

Natural  and  unnatural,  author’s  use  of  the  words,  393-394. 

Nature,  the  laws  of,  result  of  obedience  and  disobedience  to,  393 ; the 
order  of  ib. 

Nelson  column,  399. 

Newman,  Messrs.,  pigments  of,  376. 

Newton,  Charles,  and.  Greek  sculpture,  395 ; Sir  Isaac,  and  the  law  of 
gravitation,  373. 

Optics,  eyes  better  than  machines,  391.  See  Instruments. 
Oscillation,  409. 

Oxford,  galleries,  drawing  of  “ Theology  ’’  given  to,  by  author,  394; 
museum,  skulls  of  cretins  in  the,  421  ; plague- wind  at,  384-385. 


INDEX. 


433 


Philosophy,  modern,  idea  of  the  natural  in,  394. 

PLAGUE  cloud,  always  dirty,  never  blue,  401  ; wind,  the,  does  not 
always  blow,  388  : author’s  first  notice  of,  1871,  384  ; “Fors  Clavi- 
gera”  on,  385-386;  described,  386  seq (a)  it  is  dark,  ( b ) malig- 
nant, (c)  tremulous,  ( e ) intermittent,  (/)  degrading,  (g)  branches 
the  sun,  390,  396  ; no  diagram  of,  needed,  392 ; moral  meaning  of, 
392,  425  ; rise  and  scope  of,  381,  384;  scientists  have  not  observed, 
367,  423  ; in  Switzerland  and  Italy,  429  seq. 

Plato  on  the  sight,  380. 

Political  economists  and  usury,  422. 

Pope’s  “ Homer”  referred  to,  403. 

Poverty,  not  the  “ fault  of  the  poor,”  423. 

Powers,  our  natural,  sufficient  for  all  our  needs,  415. 

Prismatic  colours  too  bright  to  be  painted,  391.  See  COLOUR. 

Prophecy,  the  teaching  of  all,  392-393. 

Rae,  Dr.  John,  on  glacial  clouds,  407. 

Rain,  weather  preceding,  373-374. 

Rainbow,  purity  of  a,  in  frost  mist,  378. 

Rain-cloud,  367,  394. 

Reflection  of  light  and  colour,  401,  403. 

Religion,  modern,  397. 

Repetition  and  learning  by  heart,  as  part  of  education,  421-422. 

Rhine-falls,  the,  at  Schatfhausen,  419. 

Sallenches,  plague-wind  at,  September  11,  1882,  419  seq. 

Science,  blasphemy  of,  and  love  of  ugliness,  421 ; the  God  of,  “ a me- 
dium pervading  space,”  424  ; men  of,  what  they  do  and  ought  to 
do.  372 ; their  knowledge,  398 ; tlieir  language,  inaccurate  and 
careless,  379,  397,  409  ; their  Latin-English,  379. 

Scots  Greys,  the,  374. 

Sea  Gulls,  416. 

Sensationalism,  in  philosophy,  380. 

Senses,  the  unaided,  sufficient  for  all  our  needs,  414. 

Severn,  Arthur,  his  boat  on  Coniston,  389  ; diagrams  2 and  4 by,  377, 
382. 

Severn,  Mrs.  (Joanie),  388. 

Shakspeare,  quoted,  425. 

Sight,  the,  only  a sensation,  380  ; Plato  on,  380 ; the  unaided,  414. 

Sin,  modern,  and  denial  of  God,  392. 

Sky,  never  seen  bjr  modern  artists,  418;  blueness  of,  how  caused,  373; 
its  elements,  408  ; green,  how  caused,  376,  404-405. 

Smith,  Adam,  422. 

Solomon,  wisdom  of  (Prov.  xvii.),  422. 

Sound,  a sensation  only,  380. 

South-west,  the  favorite  quarter  for  the  plague-wind,  386. 

Station  in  life,  the  end  of  modern  knowledge,  423. 

Steam,  visibility  of,  370 ; its  nature,  397-398. 

Stewart,  Balfour,  on  the  “ Conservation  of  Energy,”  410  seq.,  424. 

Storm-cloud,  in  the  old  days,  366  ; and  now-a-days,  367. 

“ of  Nineteenth  Century.”  See  Author’s  Books. 

Sun,  the,  blanched  by  the  plague-wind,  380-381,  413  ; Byron  on  “the 
burning  oracle,”  396  ; in  cloud  and  plague-cloud,  391 ; effect  of 


434 


INDEX. 


colour  on  wliite  objects,  375  ; never  rises  on  modern  England’s  em- 
pire, 392;  the  fountain  not  the  origin  of  life,  396-397;  not  a 
“man,”  410;  measure,  391;  red,  never  darker  than  the  sky 
around  it,  395. 

Sunrise,  rarely  seen  now  by  anybody,  369. 

Sunsets,  described  (see  Abbeville,  Coniston,  Herne  Hill)  ; of  ait 
tumn,  1883,  413,  425  and  note 

Swearing,  not  always  blasphemy,  420-421. 

Swinging  and  oscillation,  409.  See  Light. 

Thackeray,  “ Vanity  Fair,'’  blasphemy  of  passage  in,  420. 

‘ ‘ Theology,  ’ drawing  of,  at  Oxford,  394. 

Thomson,  Sir  W.,  on  aqueous  molecules,  408. 

Thought,  and  language,  409  -410. 

Thunder-storm  described,  389. 

Tobacco,  398. 

Tone,  artist  s,  381. 

Tremulousness  of  the  plague-wind,  386. 

Turner,  J.  W.  M.,  on  death,  395 ; sunsets  seen  by,  391 ; symbolic  use 
of  scarlet,  etc  , 396  ; works  of,  mentioned  : “ Brignal  Banks,”  396  ; 
“Goldau,”  396;  “ Kirby  Lonsdale,”  398;  “Napoleon  at  St.  Hel- 
ena,” 396  ; “ Old  Temcraire,  ’ 396  ; “Slave-ship,’  396;  “Ulysses 
and  Polyphemus.”  398  ; ‘ Winclielsea,”  402. 

Tyndall,  Prof. , on  the  banner  (or  leeside)  cloud,  399  ; blasphemy  of 
(“Forms  of  Water,”  § 92),  421;  language  of,  criticised,  as  care- 
less, 410,  411;  ascent  of  Mont  Blanc  (“  Glaciers  of  the  Alps.”  p. 
76),  405  ; on  the  Jungfrau,  372;  on  the  Matterhorn.  372  (‘Gla' 
ciers  of  the  Alps,  ’ pp.  10,  146),  399  ; ascent  of  Monte  Rosa,  377  ; on 
battening  of  rocks  (“Glaciers  of  the  Alps.”  p.  10),  399-400;  on 
the  blueness  of  the  sky  (“  Glaciers  of  the  Alps”),  373;  on  steam 
( ‘Forms  of  Water”),  397  ; on  vibration,  379. 

Undulation,  and  vibration,  379. 

Usury,  422. 

Val  d’ Aosta,  storm  in  the  (diagram  4),  382. 

Vaporization  (see  Steam),  397. 

Vapour,  visible  and  invisible,  370  seq.,  371-372. 

Vehmgericht,  the,  374. 

Verona,  to  Brescia,  twilight  (diagram  3),  381. 

Vibration  and  undulation,  379. 

Weather,  clear  hills  looking  near,  373-374 ; in  the  old  days  and  new, 
368 ; summer,  1876,  winter,  1878-9,  388.  See  Author,  diary. 

Westminster,  clouds  over,  382. 

Wetherlam,  389. 

White’s,  Gilbert,  “ History  of  Selborne,”  426  n. 

Wind,  dipping  and  rising,  417 ; the  force  of,  how  caused,  412,  414 
measure,  391. 

Wordsworth,  quoted  on  wind-motion,  418  n. 


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